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SELECTED WRITINGS 
OF WILLIAM SHARP 

UNIFORM EDITION 
ARRANGED BY 
Mrs. WILLIAM SHARP 

VOLUME V 



VISTAS 

THE GYPSY CHRIST AND 
OTHER PROSE IMAGININGS 
BY WILLIAM SHARP 



SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY 

MRS. WILLIAM SHARP 




NEW YORK 
DUFFIELD & COMPANY. 

1921 






Copyright, 1894, by 
STONE & KIMBALL 

Copyright, 1912, by 
DUFFIELD & COMPANY 






Printed in U. S. A. 



CONTENTS 

PART I 
Vistas 

PAGE 

Foreword 3 

Finis ii 

The Passion of P^re Hilarion . ... 23 

The Birth of a Soul 51 

A Northern Night 63 

The Black Madonna 93 

The Last Quest 119 

The Fallen God 1:29 

The Coming of the Prince 137 

The Passing of Lilith 151 

The Lute-Player 169 

The Whisperer 183 

PART II 
From Madge 0' the Pool 

Madge o' the Pool: A Thames Etching . . 197 

The Gypsy Christ 247 

The Lady in Hosea 313 

PART III 
EccE Puella and Other Prose Imaginings 

EccE Puella 333 

Fragments from the Lost Journals of Piero 

Di CosiMO 379 

The Birth, Death and Resurrection of a Tear 413 

The Hill-Wind 425 

Love in a Mist 435 

The Sister of Compassion 451 

The Merchant of Dreams 459 

Bibliographical Note 483 



PART I 

Vistas 



FOREWORD 
To H, M. Alden 

In dedicating to you this American edition 
of "" Vistas " I am in the position of one of 
those islanders of old who offered their rude 
iron in exchange for wrought gold. They, 
however, bartered in all innocence: while I, for 
my part, know too well that nothing you can 
find herein can give you the same deep and 
lasting pleasure I have had in your beautiful 
and moving book, — the book of a lifelong 
dream, of a lifetime reverie, full of strange 
beauty, spiritual, wrought out of lovely 
thoughts into lovely words. 

How well I remember the day when I first 
saw the Hudson in its autumnal glory! But 
memorable as that day is, shared with you and 
a dear common friend, poet and veteran 
critic, — in the '' sixties " now, so far as years 
go, but in the wonderful ''twenties" in all 
else, — my most living memory is of those 
proof-sheets of '^ The Following Love '' which 
were entrusted to me, and made upon my mind 
so indelible an impression} 

1 Now, and so far less happily, surely, called " God 
in his World" (Harpers'). 

3 



Foreword 

Two years later I was with you again, when 
the shadow of ill lay almost more darkly upon 
you yourself than upon the blithe, heroic suf- 
ferer: and by that time I knew your book 
intimately, and had learned much from it. 
Then, too, I was able to show you one of these 
" Vistas/' and to hear generous words in praise 
of what at best was a passing breath of music, 
as fugitive, and perhaps as meaningless to 
most people, as those faint airs heard by my 
charcoal-burner in the forest, as intangible as 
that odour of white violets which came and 
went with each delicate remote strain. 

You asked me then what my aim was in 
those '^dramatic interludes" which, collect- 
ively, I call '' Vistas," I could not well ex- 
plain: nor can I do so now. After all, I 
could make only a redundant use of the title. 
All are vistas into the inner life of the human 
soul, psychic episodes. One or two are di- 
rectly autopsychical, others are renderings of 
dramatically conceived impressions of spiritual 
emotion; to two or three no quotation could 
be more apt than that of the Spanish novelist, 
Emilia Par do Bazan: ''Enter with me into 
the dark zone of the human soul." These 
''Vistas'' were written at intervals: the most 
intimate, in the spiritual sense, so long ago as 
the spring of 1886, when, during recovery 



Foreword 

from a long and nearly fatal illness, " Lilith " 
came to me as a vision and was withheld in 
words as soon as I could put pen to paper. 
Another was written in Rome, after a vain 
effort to express adequately in a different 
form the episode of death-menaced and death- 
haunted love among those remote Scottish 
wilds where so much of my childhood and 
boyhood and early youth was spent. Some of 
my critics say that " Vistas " is hut an English 
reflection of the Maeterlinckian fire. Two of 
the most Maeterlinckian are, by those critics, 
held to be ''A Northern Night'' and ''The 
Passing of Lilith," — creations, if such they 
may be called, anterior to the fortunate hour 
when I came for the first time upon "La 
Princesse Maleine" and " L'lntruse." 

I say '' the fortunate hour," for almost from 
the first moment it seemed clear to me that the 
Belgian poet-dramatist had introduced a new 
and vital literary form. It is one that many 
had been seeking, — stumblingly, among them, 
the author of " Vistas," — but Maurice Mae- 
terlinck wrought the crude material into a 
form at for swift and dexterous use, at once 
subtle and simple. The exaggerations of his 
admirable method were obvious from the first; 
in " Ulntruse " even, more markedly in " Les 
Aveugles/' unmistakably in "La Princesse 



Foreword 

Maleine:" and, it must be added, still more 
prominently in his later productions. But he 
saw that there was a borderland for the Im- 
agination, between the realms of Prose and 
Poetry. He discerned the need, even though 
it should be but the occasional need, — for 
after all it is only an addition to the old for- 
mulas that we seek, — of a more elastic method 
than any exercised in our day, one that would 
not restrict the elusive imagination nor yet 
burden it with verbal juggleries and license. 
There is room for the Imagination in Prose: 
there is room for the Imagination in Verse: 
there is room, also, for the Imagination in the 
vague, misty, beautiful borderlands. Of 
course there is nothing radically new in M, 
Maeterlinck's method. The Greek dramatists, 
the French, and, among others, Calderon nota- 
bly, have all preceded him: the miracle-plays 
are " Maeterlinckian: '' the actual form as now 
identified with his name was first used by his 
contemporary, Charles Van Lerberghe, in 
*' Les Flaireurs,'' Probably there is never any 
quite new literary method. Certainly the 
greatest writers were not creators of the form 
or forms they adopted: Aeschylus, Sophocles, 
Euripides, Shakespeare, Racine, Goethe, Hugo. 
But after all, these things matter little. The 
" form',' be it what it may, is open to all. Our 

6 



Foreword 

concern should be, not with the accident of 
formal similitude, but with the living and con- 
vincing reality behind the form, created or 
adapted or frankly adopted. No one would 
dream of an imputation upon a poefs original- 
ity if he choose to express himself in the 
sonnet form, the most hackneyed of all verse- 
formulas and yet virginal to each new wooer 
who is veritably son to Apollo. 

A great creative period is at hand. Prob- 
ably a great dramatic epoch. But what will 
for one thing differentiate it from any prede- 
cessor is the new complexity, the new subtlety, 
in apprehension, in formative conception, in 
imaginative rendering. 

William Sharp. 

1894. 



Enter with me into the dark 
zone of the human soul. 

— Emilia Pabuoo Bazan, 



Finis 



. . . Blood for blood. 

Bitter requital on the dead is fallen, 

Euripides: Electra, 



FINIS 

[An obscure wood, at whose frontiers nei- 
ther night nor day prevails, but only a 
dread twilight, a brief way beyond the 
portals of the Grave. In the vast vault 
overhead no cloud moveth, no star 
shineth.] 

THE PHANTOM OF THE MAN 

The shadows deepen. 

THE SOUL OF THE MAN 

[Blind with the darkness of death.] On! 
Onr 

THE PHANTOM 

This way let us go. 

THE SOUL 

Chill, chill, the breath from the Grave. 
Would that I too were dead. 

THE PHANTOM 

The wood is dark, and the shadows deepen. 

THE SOUL 

Canst thou see nought f Dost thou see 
nothingf 

THE PHANTOM 

I see nought. I see no one. 

THE SOUL 

This awful silence! 

II 



William Sharp 

THE PHANTOM 

Two shadows only — two shadows in the 
Hollow Land that move. We are they. 

THE SOUL 

Dost thou not hear ? 

THE PHANTOM 

What? 

THE SOUL 

Afar off, as in the heart of the wood, a 
strange sighing. 

THE PHANTOM 

Is it the wind of Death ? 

THE SOUL 

Is it the perishing lamentation of the dead .'• 

THE PHANTOM 

I see vast avenues penetrating the darkness 
of the wood. 

THE SOUL 

And there is no one there? There is 
nought visible? 

THE PHANTOM 

No shadow moves. No branch stirs. But 
always, always, leaves are falling: shadowless, 
soundless. 

THE SOUL 

Let us go back : let us go back ! It may be 
that in the Grave there is a place of rest! 

12 



Finis 

THE PHANTOM 

I see the portals no more. A mist has risen. 

THE SOUL 

What lies behind us? 

THE PHANTOM 

Dim avenues. No shadow moves. No 
branch stirs. But always, always, leaves are 
falling: shadowless, soundless. 

THE SOUL 

Which way came we? 

THE PHANTOM 

I know not. 

THE SOUL 

Whither go we ? 

THE PHANTOM 

I know not. 

THE SOUL 

Did we perish ere we entered the dark way 
of the Grave? 

THE PHANTOM 

The body died. 

THE SOUL 

[Terrified,] Who art thou? 

THE PHANTOM 



Thou, 



[The Soul of the Man staggers wildly 
away, with outstretched arms, with lips 

13 



William Sharp 

moving in agony, but silent. The Phan- 
tom of the Man stands motionless. In 
a brief while the Soul has wandered in 
a circle back to the place whence it 
started.] 

THE PHANTOM 

The shadows deepen. Let us go. 

THE SOUL 

[In the bitterness of anguish.] I am as a 
leaf blown by the wind. 

[They move through the gloom of a vast 
avenue. There is no sound, no stir, no 
shadow, though ever there are falling 
leaves that fade into the under-dark- 
ness. From afar, within the hollow of 
the wood, there comes a faint sighing, 
that is as the sea in calm or as a wind 
that swoons upon the pastures, but is 
not any wind that breathes on any sea.] 

THE SOUL 

Doth it grow more dark ? 

THE PHANTOM 

There is no change. It is neither day nor 
night. But far away the avenues reach into 
utter blackness. 

THE SOUL 

Doth a wind blow in the Shadow of Death ? 

THE PHANTOM 

No wind bloweth through the Hollow Land, 

14 



Finis 

though from the darkness beyond cometh a 
faint sighing. 

THE SOUL 

Dead prayers — dead hopes — dead dreams ! 

[A long silence: and still the twain move 

down the sombre avenues of the wood. 

There is no sound, no stir — only the 

fall of leaves forever and ever.] 

THE PHANTOM 

A great weakness is come upon me. I can 
fare no further. 

THE SOUL 

[Terrified,] Leave me not alone! Leave 
me not! Leave me not! 

THE PHANTOM 

Behold, another cometh. I perish. 

[The soul stretched out its hands to its 
fellow, but nought can stay the fading 
and the falling of the leaf. From 
another avenue come two figures, the 
one leading the other.] 

THE PHANTOM OF THE WOMAN 

I am weary of the long quest. As a leaf 
goeth before the wind, I go. 

THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 

Leave me not alone ! Leave me not ! Leave 
me not. 

[The Soul of the Woman stretcheth out its 
hands to its fellow, but nought can stay 
the fading and the falling of the leaf.] 

15 



William Sharp 

THE SOUL OF THE MAN 

[ Whispering,] O Death, give me thy sting ! 
O Grave, suffer me to be thy victim ! 

THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 

Where art thou? Where art thou — thou 
who wast myself? 

[The Soul of the Man stops, trembles, lis- 
tens intently. Through the profound 
silence the leaves fall, but none seeth; 
for the Soul of the Man is blind, and 
blind the Soul of the Woman.] 

THE SOUL OF THE MAN 

[In deep awe.] Doth aught pass by? 

[Profound silence.] 

THE SOUL OF THE MAN 

For the love of life, I beseech thee, art 
thou, who art in the silence, even as I am ? 

[Profound silence.] 

THE SOUL OF THE MAN 

{In terror.] It is Death. 

[Profound silence.] 

THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 

\_In a low whisper.] At last! At last! 

[Slowly the Soul of the Woman advances. 
The Soul of the Man listens intently, and 
an awful fear is upon him.] 

THE SOUL OF THE MAN 

Speak, thou that comest! 

i6 



Finis 

[There is a faint echo as of a rustling 
sound.] 

It IS leaves blown by the wind ! 

[There is an echo as of a rustling sound, 
nearer, and nearer, and nearer.] 

What art thou? 

[The faint rustling steps are close by. 
With tremulous, groping hands the Soul 
of the Man moves away, and then, par- 
alyzed with terror, goes no further. He 
hears the faint steps encircling him, 
slowly, slowly. It is as of one groping 
blindly.] 

THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 

[Whispering.] It is he! 

THE SOUL OF THE MAN 

Who Spoke? Who comes? Oh, my God, 
why hast Thou forsaken me? 

[A low, thin sighing from afar in the dark- 
ness of the wood, as though of all dead 
prayers, dead hopes, dead dreams.] 

THE SOUL OF THE MAN 

[Crying shrilly in his terror,] Who comes? 
Who comes? 

[The Soul of the Woman draws nigh, till 
it stands beside the other. Then with 
outstretched arms she gropes for hint 
whom she seeketh. The Soul of the 
the Man cowers, sobbing in agony.] 

17 



William Sharp 

THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 

Thou knowest. 

THE SOUL OF THE MAN 

Oh, God! Oh, God! 

THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 

Yea, even so at the last, for death cometh 
unto all. 

THE SOUL OF THE MAN 

Have pity upon me, Agatha! Hast thou 
come to slay? 

THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 

Thou knowest. 

THE SOUL OF THE MAN 

Death! Death! 

THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 

I have waited long. 

THE SOUL OF THE MAN 

My sin — my sin — is there no expiation? 

THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 

Yea, verily, at the last. 

THE SOUL OF THE MAN 

Oh, inner heart of hell ! 

THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 

There is no heaven and no hell but upon the 
earth. And unto some is heaven, and unto 
some is hell : but woe unto those by whom hell 

18 



Finis 

is wrought for another, for his end is undying 
death and the horror of the grave. 

THE SOUL OF THE MAN 

Have mercy upon me! 

THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 

Thou wert my hell. 

THE SOUL OF THE MAN 

Have mercy upon me! 

THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 

Thou didst take the fresh life and pollute it 
with evil — thou didst seek me out to defile me 
— thou didst fling me into the mire and 
trample upon me — thou didst laugh me to 
scorn and drag me through the depths — and 
at the last, when once, only once, one gleam of 
brightness, one gleam of joy, came to me, thou 
didst foul it as death corrupts the carrion of 
the body, and didst work for me woe within 
woe, and hell within hell. 

[The Soul of the Man suddenly throws his 
arms on high as though to ward a blow : 
then stoops, and flees like the wind 
down a sombre avenue of the obscure 
wood. For minutes, for hours — he 
knoweth not, he careth not — he goeth 
thus. Then, all at once, he stops; for 
nearer, nearer, he hears the sighing from 
the midmost of the darkness, the sigh- 
ing as of dead prayers, dead hopes, dead 

19 






William Sharp 

dreams. Suddenly there is a faint sound 
as of blown leaves. It draweth near.] 

THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 

For thou hast wrought woe within woe for 
me, and hell within hell. 

[The Soul of the Man staggers dumbly, 
stretches forth unavailing arms, and 
knoweth the agony of the second death. 
Then wildly, and with a triumphing 
cry—] 

At the least I slew him — at the least I 
strangled him where he lay ! 

THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 

Was it thus ? 

[With a strange perishing cry the Soul of 
the Woman springs upon the other, and, 
clasping with both hands, strangles the 
Soul of the Man. 
And in the sombre twilight of the vast ave- 
nues of the wood there is no sound; and 
in the darkness nought stirs, save the 
leaves falling forever, forever. Only 
from afar, in the uttermost darkness, 
there is a low sighing, that passeth not, 
that changeth not, and is as the vanish- 
ing breath of dead prayers, dead hopes, 
dead dreams.] 



20 



The Passion of Pere Hilarion 



SiRIA 

Voire amour lui serait Vorage. 

NURH 

Je Vaime, 

SiRIA 

Malheur a lui. 

NURH 

Je Vaime. 

SiRIA 

Malheur a vous, 

Le Barbare. 



THE PASSION OF P£RE HILARION. 

[A small, dark room, opening from the Sac- 
risty of the Church of Notre Dame, in 
the village of Haut-Pre, on the French 
side of the Meuse. In the room, which 
is windowless, there is no light save the 
dull, yellow flicker from an iron cruse 
suspended from the low roof. Nought 
else is visible save a small iron bell jut- 
ting out above the door, connected with 
the outside by a string passing through 
a hole in the highest panel, and, on the 
further wall, a heavy metal crucifix. 
On the floor a man, in a priest's robes, 
lies at full length, face downward. 
Every now and then a convulsive shud- 
der passes over his frame. He has lain 
thus for long, uttering no words, but 
praying silently with a passion that rends 
him. At last, with a low, sobbing sigh, 
Hilarion the priest rises, stands passively 
for a few moments, and then slowly 
advances till he is close to the crucifix.] 

HILARION 

Wilt Thou not hearken to my cry, O Thou 

who savest? 

23 



William Sharp 

[A faint, dull resonance of his voice haunts 
the room for a few moments; then si- 
lence as of the tomb.] 

HILARION 

[With broken, supplicating voice.] O Thou 
who hast passioned, wilt Thou not have pity 
upon me in this mine agony? Lord, Lord, 
wilt Thou not save? Lo, I am younger than 
Thou wert when Thy bloody sweat fell in 
Gethsemane! Have compassion upon me, O 
Christ compassionate! I am but a man, and 
the burden of my manhood, the bitter burden 
of my youth, is heavy upon me. 

[The dull, fading echo of a human voice; 
then silence as of the grave.] 

HILARION 

Speak, Lord. 

Show me a sign! 

O Thou who wast crucified for me, hearken ! 

Friend, O Brother, O Heavenly Love, I 
beseech Thee! 

Jesus, Son of Mary, wilt Thou not hear? 

1 cry to Thee, O Son of God ! 
I cry to Thee, O Son of Man ! 

[He bows his head, and waits for he knows 
not what, his lips twitching, and hands 
clasping and unclasping. Then, sud- 
denly:] 

24 



The Passion of Pere Hilarion 

What wilt Thou, O Son of Man? Am I 
not Thy Brother? 

[Leaning forward, and speaking slowly:] 

x\rt Thou dead indeed, O Thou who was 
crucified ? 

[The dull beat of sound around the walls: 
then silence as of deep night] 

I perish! 

Stretch forth Thy hand and save ! 

I perish! 

[Faintly round the tomb-like walls breathes 
the echo of the word: Perish. Then 
silence, chill and still as death.] 

I am but a man, O God ! 
I am but a man, O Christ ! 
My sin is oversweet, and the world calls me, 
and I die daily, hourly^ yea, every bitter mo- 
ment! 

[With a fierce cry, and wild gesture with 
his arms:] 

What wouldst Thou? Doth not my neck 
break beneath the yoke? 

[Suddenly he throws his priestly robe from 
off him. Beneath he has but a garment 
of hair and coarse serge, girt round the 
waist by a long rope heavily knotted. 
This also he removes, and then winds 
one end of the rope round his right 

25 



William Sharp 

wrist. With swift sweep he swings the 
knotted rope above his head, and brings 
it down upon his quivering sides. 
Slowly and steadily the knotted rope 
rises, circles, falls; moment after mo- 
ment, minute after minute. At the last, 
one, two, three of the great weals along 
the man's back and sides break, and the 
flesh hangs purple-red, and the blood 
runs in thin scarlet streams down his 
thighs. Then, with a low cry, he throws 
down the rope and sinks on his knees, 
quivering with agony and exhaustion.] 

HILARION 

[With a low, choking sob.] "Come unto 
Me, ye that are v^eary and heavy-laden, and I 
will give you rest.'' 

[The bell over the door clangs loudly. The 
priest slowly rises, puts on his hair shirt 
and stanches the blood as best he can, 
girds the rope about his waist, and dons 
again his long black robes. He is calm 
now, and deathly pale. Before he leaves, 
the Penitents* room he makes a grave 
obeisance before the crucifix, but in si- 
lence and with downcast eyes. He goes 
forth, and through the Sacristy to a side 
door, opening on to a wide, deserted vil- 
lage street. He stands in the doorway, 
looking out as in a dream. The day is 
far spent, and the shadows gather and 
lengthen. In an old inn, opposite, from 

26 



The Passion of Pere Hilarion 

an open window, contes a woman's joy- 
ous laughter. The priest does not move, 
and seems neither to hear nor to see. 
A little later, the deep voice of a man 
slowly chants to a strange, monotonous 
tune:] 

'' Elle est retrouvee, 
Quoi? V eternite, 
Cest la met allee. 
Avec le soleil/' ^ 

[The priest Hilarion abruptly turns away, 
muttering, as though in fierce pain, Oh, 
God! Oh, God! He passes into the 
Sacristy, and stands idly by a desk, 
brooding on the thing that is in his 
mind. A bell suddenly rings again. 
The sacristan enters and says that a 
woman is at the third confessional, and 
asks for Father Hilarion. He slowly 
leaves, and walks down the aisle toward 
his place, with bent head and heavy 
steps. As he reaches the box he looks 
back through the church toward the 
altar, where a young priest is leisurely 
lighting the candles. Below his breath 
he mutters:] 

Avec le soleiL'^ 
[He enters the box and seats himself. A 

'" Cest la mer allee 
1 ** Les Illuminations." 

27 



William Sharp 

woman — veiled — tall, young, and with 
a figure of strange grace and beauty, is 
on her knees.] 

HILARION 

[Quietly.] My daughter. 

THE WOMAN 

[Hurriedly.] My father, my heart is . . . 

HILARION 

[Abruptly rising, but seating himself again.] 
Anais ! 

ANAIS 

Yes, Father Hilarion, it is I. No, no, I 
cannot call you so! 

HILARION 

Hush ! Anais, God is pitiful. We will praj 
for His help, and that of His holy Son, and 
that of the Blessed Mary. 

ANAIS 

There is no help but in ourselves. 

HILARION 

Here we are as shadows in a fevered dream. 
The voice of Eternity. . . . 

[Stops abruptly, as in his ears rises an echo 
of the song:] 

" L'eternite. . . . 
28 



I 1 1 ■ I I ITM^^TII 



The Passion of P^re Hilarion 

C'est la mer allee 
Avec le soleiL" 

ANAIS 

My heart breaks. The time has come: I 
must speak — and you, Hilarion — No, no, 
you must stay! Father Hilarion, I command 
you, as my priest, as my spiritual director ! I 
must confess. 

[She removes her veil, and in Hilarion's 
face a flush rises and fades as he looks 
again upon a face of such rare, sur- 
passing beauty that even in dreams, be- 
fore he first saw it, he had never be- 
held one lovelier, aught so lovely. 
An acolyte, with a tall wax taper, passing 
by again, hears the swift whispering, 
the low, ardent tones of a woman's 
voice: and, once or twice, the deep mur- 
mur of Father Hilarion.] 

ANAi'S 

Better than the dream of heaven! He is 
my paradise ! 

HILARION 

My daughter, this love is madness. 

ANAIS 

Then better so. I am mad. Oh^ are you a 
man ? Do you not understand ? I love him — 
I love him — I love him ! 

29 



William Sharp 

HILARION 

My daughter, you must tell me all. What 
is this secret thing that lies betwixt you and — 
and this man? 

ANAIS 

Hilarion ! 

HILARION 

[^Troubled.] Anais, my daughter! 

ANAIS 

Hilarion ! 

[Hilarion half rises, then seats himself 
again. His face has grown paler, and 
his hand trembles.] 

ANAIS 
Oh, my God, how I love him ! What is the 
world to me? What is this paradise you 
dream of, this heaven you preach ? He is my 
heaven, my paradise, my heart's delight, my 
life itself, my very soul! 

[Anais bends forward, but hides her face 
from Hilarion, and sobs convulsively. 
The priest stares fixedly above her head 
into the gloom of the church beyond 
the uncurtained doorway.] 

HILARION 

[In a low voice.] Most Blessed Virgin- 
Mother, have pity ! 

[There is silence for some moments. 

30 



The Passion of Pere Hilarion 

Anais slowly lifts her head and looks at 
the priest, who still stares fixedly into 
the gloom.] 

ANAIS 

[In a faint whisper. '\ Beyond words ! Be- 
yond thought ! 

HILARION 

Mary, Mother of Pity, hearken ! 

ANAIS 

{Quivering, as she clasps her hands to- 
gether,] Life is a dream, and the dream is 
brief. O Love, Love, Love! 

HILARION 

Mater Consolatrix, save, oh, save! 

[The grating, long loose, gives way, and 
falls with a clang upon the stone floor. 
Tremulously the priest lets his hand 
fall upon the head of Anais. Suddenly 
she takes his icy hand in hers, aflame 
as with fever.] 

HILARION 

My daughter, it is a sin to love so wildly. 
Only to God. ... 

ANAIS 

[In a loud, mocking voice,] Only to God! 

HILARION 

Hush, my daughter. I . . . 

ANAIS 

Hilarion ! 

31 



William Sharp 

HILARION 

[Speaking low and hurriedly,] My daugh- 
ter, I am a priest. Thou must speak to me as 
to thy spiritual father. I . . . 

ANAifS 

Three years ago, Hilarion . . . 

HILARION 

Anais, Anais! 

[Anais bows her head over the priest's 
hand, and her lips are pressed against it. 
His face is deathly pale, and on his fore- 
head are drops of sweat. With a sud- 
den movement he extricates his hand 
from her grasp.] 

ANAIS 

[Murmuring,] It is killing me! 

HILARION 

[With a great effort,] My daughter, there 
is neither rest, nor peace, nor beauty, nor hap- 
piness, nor content, nor any weal whatever in 
this world, save in . . . 

[Anais raises her head and looks at him. 
He speaks no further. There is deep 
silence in the church, save for the shuf- 
fling step of an old beggar-woman, who 
slowly moves through the dusk, and at 
last sinks wearily on her knees.] 

THE BEGGAR-WOMAN 

[Repeating a prayer of the Church,] " For 

32 



The Passion of Pere Hilanon 

this is Thy Kingdom, and we are Thy children, 
O heavenly King ! " 

HILARION 

[Mechanically,] And we are Thy children ! 

ANAIS 

[With a low, shuddering voice,] And this 
is Thy Kingdom. 

[Hilarion rises suddenly, as if about to go.] 

HILARION 

My daughter, confess to the Blessed Mary 
herself. She will give you peace. 

ANAIS 

There is no peace for me. I love him with 
all my heart and all my soul and all my life, 
and I know that he loves me beyond all his 
dreams of heaven and hell. 

HILARION 

[Hoarsely,] Who is this man? 

ANA'iS 

He is a priest. 

HILARION 

[Murmuring, half to himself,] " He who 
transgresseth in this wise shall go down into 
the pit, and his undying death shall be terror 
beyond terror, and horror within horror." 

ANAIS 

And for one kiss from his lips I would 

33 



William Sharp 

barter this life ; for one hour of love I would 
exchange this dream of a Paradise that shall 
not be. He is my day of sunshine and joy, 
he is my night of mystery and beatitude. 

HILARION 

[Trembling.] The curse shall lie heavy 
upon him. . . . 

ANAIS 

Oh, joy of life! 

HILARION 

And upon you! 

ANAIS 

Oh, the glad sunlight, the free air, the sing- 
ing of birds; everywhere, everywhere, the 
pulse of the world ! 

HILARION 

All that live shall die. 

ANAJiS 

And the dead know not: and if perchance 
they dream, it is Life. 

[The voice of the Beggar-woman sounds 
hoarsely in the deepening gloom:] 

" For in this life nought availeth, and only 
in the grave — " 

ANAIS 

[Whispering, as she draws closer to the 
aperture,] Only in the grave! — O Heart of 
Love! 

34 



The Passion of Pere Hilarion 

HILARION 

[In a strained voice.] And this man — 
this priest? 

ANAIS 

Thou knowest him. 

HILARION 

Better for him that he had never been born. 
Better — 

ANAIS 

[In a low, thrilling voice,] Hilarion! 
Hilarion ! 

[The priest trembles as though in an ague. 
Anais again whispers, '* Hilarion ! ''] 

HILARION 

[Hurriedly.] My daughter, I must go. I 
have to officiate. 

ANAiS 

For the last time, Hilarion. 

HILARION 

Go, woman ! We are in the hands of God. 
I — 

ANAIS 

I die to-night. 

HILARION 

Anais ! 

ANAIS 

[With a passionate sob.] My darling, my 
darling! O Love, Love, Love! 

35 



William Sharp 

[A bell clangs suddenly, and a young priest 
enters the church from behind the altar, 
bearing a light.] 

THE BEGGAR-WOMAN 

[Mumbling loudly, as she rises to her feet,] 
" For thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and 
the Glory — " 

ANAIS 

[Whispering eagerly.] Where? Where? 

HILARION 

[Slowly, and as if in a dream.] By the 
bend of the river at Grand-Pre: where the 
Calvary of the seven willows is : an hour after 
moonrise. 

[Anais hesitates a moment, then abruptly 
turns away and leaves the church. Hila- 
rion passes into the aisle: walking 
slowly, with bent head, and lips moving 
as though in prayer. The young priest 
comes toward him.] 

THE YOUNG PRIEST 

Is it well with thee, Hilarion, my brother? 
Thou seemest in the shadow of trouble. 

HILARION 

[Suddenly raising his head, and with a 
clear, ringing voice,] It is well with me. 

THE YOUNG PRIEST 

And thou hast peace ? 

36 



The Passion of Pere Hilarion 

HILARION 

Yea, at the last I have found peace. 

THE YOUNG PRIEST 

May, too, the joy that likewise passeth un- 
derstanding — 

HILARION 

[Interrupting, in a strange voice.] Verily, 
it also hath come unto me at the last. 

[He passes on, with head erect and flashing 
eyes. The young priest looks after him.] 

THE YOUNG PRIEST 

He is a dreamer — but a saint. 

HILARION 

[To himself as he passes beyond the altar,~\ 
Yea, the joy that likewise passeth under- 
standing. 

[The choristers are practising their chant of 
the day.] 
Mere celeste de la Pitie! 
De toute Eternite. 

HILARION (passes muttering), 
'' Elle est retrouvee, 
Quoi? U eternite — " 

[The choristers singing:] 

On a retrouve 
O Mere bien-aimee. 
Ton doux conseil — 
HILARION {slowly, OS he passes from sight). 

37 



William Sharp 

'' C'est la mer allee 
Avec le soleiH' 

[Three hours later. The church is closed. 
The village is swathed in darkness, save 
for a few lights here and there. Across 
the great meadow that divides the vil- 
lage from the river moves a tall figure 
clothed in priest's robes. The dew upon 
the high grasses glistens with a faint 
sheen where swept by his skirts. A few 
emerald-green fireflies wander hither and 
thither through the gloom. A breath of 
wind comes and goes, bearing with it 
a vague fragrance of hay and roses 
and meadow-sweet. Once the priest 
stops and listens; but he hears nothing 
save the distant barking of a dog, and, 
close by, the stealthy wash of flowing 
water. Beyond the marshes of Haut-Pre 
the moon has risen. The marsh-water 
gleams like amber in torchlight. The 
priest moves on. As he draws nearer 
the river he sees, looming in a confused 
mass through the obscurity, the group 
of seven willows in the front of which 
stands the great Calvary. A sudden 
short essay of song thrills through the 
dusk. Then the nightingale is still. As 
the priest approaches the willows their 
upper branches glow as with dull gold 
in the welling wave of moon-rise. He 
descries the high ash-gray mass of the 
Calvary through their heavy boughs, 
and, beyond, the moving blackness, shot 

38 



The Passion of Pere Hilarion 

with furtive gleams and sudden spear- 
like shafts of pale light, of the river. 
He passes the willows and stops as he 
nears the Calvary. He sees no one. 
Slowly moving forward, he stands on 
the bank of the river, and looks upon 
the dull, obscure flow of the water. 
Suddenly he turns and goes back to 
the Calvary, which he faces. A long, 
wavering shaft of moonlight illumes the 
woe-wrought face of the carven Christ. 
The priest stands with crossed arms, 
staring fixedly at the moonlit features of 
the God. The green fireflies wander fit- 
fully betwixt him and the image: he 
sees them not. The nightingale gives 
three thrilling cries, passionate vibra- 
tions of forlornest music: he hears theni 
not. 
Through the tall dew-drenched grasses be- 
yond there is a soft susurrus. The 
priest's ears are charmed, for still, with 
crossed arms, he stands staring fixedly 
at the tortured face of the dead God. 
Suddenly he starts, as, from beyond the 
mass of the Calvary, a fantastic shadow 
moves toward him. He steps aside, and 
through the thin, moon-illumined mist 
behind he sees Anais approach, the moon- 
shine turning her hair to pale bronze 
and making her face as one of the water- 
lilies in the river.] 

ANAIS 

[Eagerly advancing. ] Hilarion ! 

39 



William Sharp 

HILARION 

I am here. 

ANAIS 

[With fierce fervor, ~\ Let the priest die! 
It is you — it is you, Hilarion — whom I meet 
here. At last ! At last ! 

[Hilarion is silent, and neither advances nor 
makes any gesture. Anais hesitates, then 
comes close up to him and looks into his 
eyes.] 

ANAIS 

Hilarion, is it life or death? 

[Abruptly the nightingale sends a low cres- 
cendo note throbbing through the moon- 
light] 

HILARION 

[Whispering and slowly, 1 Life — or — 
death, 

[With rapture swells the song of the nightin- 
gale, intoxicated with a mad ecstasy.] 

ANAIS 
[/n a low voice.] Ah, Hilarion, have you 
forgotten ? 

[Suddenly, with rapid diminutions, the night- 
ingale's song sinks to a thin, aerial music : 
abruptly wells forth again : and then, in 
a moment, ceases absolutely. There is a 
faint beat of wings, a rustle, and then 
the bird swoops in slanting flight from 
the mid-foliage, circles twice round the 

40 



The Passion of Pere Hilarion 

willow, and swiftly, as though an ar- 
row, flies through the dusk across the 
river. Hilarion starts as though awak- 
ened from a trance.] 

HILARION 

[Wildly,-] Anais! 

ANAIS 

Hilarion! O my darling, my darling! 

[She springs to his open arnts, and, as he 
bends over her, kissing her passionately, 
she sees by the moongleam reflected from 
the Calvary how deathly white he is.] 

HILARION 

[With a hoarse sob. Heart of my heart 
— soul of my soul — my life — my joy — my 
heaven — my hell ! Anais ! — Anais ! 

ANAIS 

[Extricating herself from his savage grasp,] 
Is it life or — death — Hilarion ? 

HILARION 

They are the same : it matters not. 

ANAIS 

The nightingale has gone to his mate — 
yonder ! 

HILARION 

Dear, if only — 

Anais 
In the cottage, on the other side of the river 

41 



William Sharp 

— Hilarion, there is no one there: it waits 
my brother Raoul's return: his clothes would 
fit you — he will not need them for months 
yet — he is still under arms. If they find 
your priest's robes in the river, they will 
know — 

HILARION 

Sst! What it that? 

ANAIS 

It is the night-wind coming over the hay- 
fields from afar. 

HILARION 

Did no one speak? 

ANAIS 

There is no one to speak. We are alone. 
None sees us but God. 

HILARION 

[With a swift shudder.] No one sees us 
but God. 

ANAIS 

And He — He is so far away. He speaks 
not — He breathes not — He must be dead. 

HILARION 

[Wearily,] He speaks not — He breathes 
not — He must be dead. 

ANAIS 

Is it not so? For — 
42 



The Passion of Pere Hilarion 

HILARION 

It is even so. 

ANAIS 

And, dear, you have dreamed a long, bitter 
dream. 

HILARION 

Ay, a long dream. 

ANAIS 

And the dawn is at hand. At last, at last! 
Oh, Hilarion ! 

HILARION 

Thou sayest it. 

ANAIS 

[Suddenly sinking to her knees, sobbingly.] 
My darling, forgive me ! Hilarion, kill me ! 

HILARION 

Sst! What is that? 

ANAIS 

It is the night-wind creeping over the 
marshes of Haut-Pre. 

HILARION 

[Suddenly, 1 Life! Life! beautiful Life! 
Anais, let us go. 

[He clasps her left hand in his right, and 
both walk to the river's bank] 

HILARION 

Can we reach the other side in this high 
flood? 

43 



William Sharp 

ANAIS 

Yes, by swimming. Hark ! there is no time 
to lose. I hear, across the marshes, the bells 
of Urle. The floods are rising. 

[Hilar ion slowly discards his priest's robes, 
and then, as by an afterthought, strips 
himself also of his penitent's garment and 
stands forth naked in the moonlight. He 
looks broodingly into the dark flood of 
water moving stealthily past. Anais 
rapidly throws off her clothes. He turns 
just as she stands forth in all her naked 
beauty, like a vision of embodied moon- 
light] 

HILARION 

Anais ! 

ANAIS 

Because I too am drowned. 

[Hilaron hesitates a moment, then steps to 
her, takes her in his arms, kisses her 
wildly again and again. Then saying 
simply, Come, he clasps her hand and 
they both enter the water. When Anais 
is breast-high they stop. Hilarion stoops 
and kisses her long upon the lips.] 
HILARION 

If there be no morrow — 

ANAIS 

Dear, with you I fear neither life nor death. 
Neither death nor life. 

[They enter the black shadow of midstream, 
and silently swim side by side, till at last 

44 



The Passion of Pere Hilarion 

they gain the opposite bank. There, hand 
in hand, they stand a brief while, breath- 
ing heavily, and looking back upon the 
boundary they have crossed forever. As 
the moonshine slowly waves northward, 
Anais, turning, descries the vague outline 
of her brother's unoccupied cottage. 
Stealthily she withdraws her hand from 
Hilarion's clasp and noiselessly slips 
from his side, through the deep shadows, 
toward the cottage. He stands alone, 
white in the moonlight, passive as a 
statue. Suddenly he gives a hoarse cry, 
leaps down the bank and into the water 
again. With swift, fierce strokes he 
swims rapidly across the river, bearing 
hard against the current, but swerving 
neither to right nor to left. As he nears 
the opposite bank he staggers, clutching 
the reeds: then, stooping, half-climbs, 
half-leaps up the bank, and, having 
gained it, walks swiftly toward the Cal- 
vary, The moonlight is now all about it, 
except at the head of the crucified God, 
which is in deep shadow. Hilarion the 
priest stands in front of the Calvary, star- 
ing fixedly upward. Slowly he advances, 
and stands on the highest of the three 
low steps of the pedestal of the cross, 
and, straining every muscle, scrutinizes 
the carven face of agony.] 

HILARION 

[In a hoarse whisper. ~\ Behold, the God is 
verily dead. 

45 



William Sharp 

[Nothing stirs in the silence, in the moon- 
light, in the darkness.] 

HILARION 

Wilt Thou save, even now, O my Lord? 
[Nothing stirs in the silence of the moon- 
light, of the darkness.] 

HILARION 

[In a loud, vibrant voice.] Wilt Thou 
save Thyself, Thou Lord without lordship. 
Thou fallen God! 

[In the darkness, in the moonlight, nothing 
stirs.] 

HILARION 

[Furiously.] Ah, Thou dead God! 

[Hilarion the priest leaps forward, and, with 
wild gestures and savage violence, tears 
the crucified figure from the cross and 
hurls it to the ground. Then, in panting 
silence, he sways to and fro with his arms 
claspt round the cross, which at last 
yields, breaks, and falls to the ground. 
He seizes it and drags it to the bank 
and thrusts it into the river, silently 
watching it sink half way in the ooze 
of the reeds. Then returning, with a 
low, triumphing cry, he grasps the 
carven figure, and, having reached the 
bank again, lifts the image above his 
head, poises it a moment, while the moon- 
shine clothes him as with a garment, and 
then, with desperate fury, hurls it with 
a great effort far amid-stream. 

46 



The Passion of Pbre Hilarion 

[The moonlight lies like a white transparent 
cloud along the bank, and along the 
nearer half of the flood: on the further 
side the darkness is now profound, and 
the river seems narrowed to a stream. 
Far off, in the marshes, the frogs croak: 
the crickets in the distant meadows 
shrill incessantly, over the pastures a fern- 
owl hawks with a strange choking cry. 
Otherwise, silence, and utter peace. The 
man draws himself up to his full height, 
turns toward the unseen village beyond 
the great meadow, silver-white with 
moonshine and dew, and raises his right 
arm menacingly. But he lets it drop, 
speaking no word. Then, turning again, 
he moves slowly toward and into the 
river. The moonlight turns the white 
skin of his shoulder into amber, as he 
swims across the flood. Then he passes 
into the darkness. In profound dark- 
ness he swim's toward the shore: in pro- 
found darkness he ^scales the opposite 
bank: through the profound darkness be- 
yond, his voice, hoarse, yet vibrant and 
echoing, calls with mad joy:] 

Anais ! Anais ! 



47 



Enter with me into the dark zone of the 
human souL 
Emilia Pardo Bazan. 



The Birth of a Soul 



THE BIRTH OF A SOUL 

[A bedroom, austerely furnished, in an old 
city of Flanders. To the left, a *' Span- 
ish throne/' as such beds are called — 
heavy with sombre woodwork and huge 
all-length canopy; with tall, dark, thick 
curtains at the top and at the bottom; 
and approached by three low wooden 
steps belonging to and running the whole 
length of the bed. In the bed a woman, 
about to give birth to a child. Kneeling 
at a chair betwixt the head of the bed 
and the bare table with dull green cloth, 
on which is a low-shaded reading lamp, 
is a man, the father of the unborn child. 
To his left, a Sister of Mercy, also kneel- 
ing, but at the lowest of the three steps 
of the bed. To his right, kneeling at a 
chair near the table, a priest. The door 
of the room, to the right behind the bed, 
conspicuous by its black-oak panelling. 
At the opposite side of the room from 
the bed: to the right, a tall, fantastically 
carved black-oak clock, with clay-white 
face, with hands broken and dangling 
this way and that: beyond it, to the left, 
in a deep-set recess, an old Flemish 
window.] 

THE PRIEST 

[Kneeling at a chair, praying aloudJ] O 

SI 



William Sharp 

God, may the child that cometh unto us from 
Thee be blessed by Thee to purity and 
strength. May he come as a scourge to the 
wrong-doer, as a message of peace to the 
righteous. 

THE MAN 

[Kneeling at a chair near the head of the 
bed, praying silently.'] O God, may the child 
that is to be born to us not be a man-child. 
Already^ already, O God, the curse that is 
within me has descended into the third gen- 
eration. 

THE PRIEST 

[Praying aloud.] And if the child be a 
woman-child, O Lord, may she be a lamp of 
light in dark places, a godly presence among 
the evil. 

THE WOMAN 

[Praying in the silence.] O God, may the 
child that is within me not be a woman-child, 
so that she may never know the bitterness of 
shame and all the heritage of woman's woe. 

ANOTHER 

[Unseen and unheard: in the deep shadow 
at the end of the bed.] Thou living thing 
within the womb, when thou art born I shall 
dwell within thee as thy soul. And the sin of 
the woman, the which I am, shall lie like a 
canker-worm within thy heart : and the evil of 

52 



The Birth of a Soul 

the man, the which I am, shall eat into thy in- 
most being. And thou shalt grov/ in corrup- 
tion. And thy end shall be nothingness. 

THE PRIEST 

[Aloiid.li Have mercy, O God, upon this 
immortal soul! 

THE OTHER 

[In the shadow.'] For in the shadow of 
hell wast thou conceived, and out of the hor- 
ror of the grave I come. 

THE SISTER OF MERCY 

[Aloud, kneeling betwixt the table and the 
bed.] Amen! Hear, O Blessed Mary; hear, 
oh, hear! 

THE MAN 

Have pity upon us ! 

THE MOTHER 

O Christ, son of Mary, save me ! 

THE PRIEST 

[Aloud,] For it is Thine! 

THE SISTER OF MERCY 

Thine ! 

THE OTHER 

{In the shadow.] Mine ! 

[Silence for some minutes. The clock ticks 
loudly. A sound as of an opening and 
closing door somewhere. The Priest 
looks up for a moment, thinking he heard 

S3 



William Sharp 

someone rise from the deep-set window- 
seat at the far end of the chamber and 
come slowly across the room. But he 
sees no one. He bends his head again, 
and prays inaudibly.] 

THE MAN 

[With his face buried in his hands. ^ If it 
be possible, let this thing — 

[Stops, as there comes from the bed a 
sound of low, shaken sobs.] 

THE WOMAN 

[Below her breath,'] • . . Even so. Virgin 
Mother, Most Pure ! 

THE OTHER 

[In the shadow,'] Yea, so. 

[Again a prolonged silence. All wait, know- 
ing the woman's agony is at hand. The 
right hand of the father shakes as though 
he were in an ague. The sweat on his 
forehead moves slowly down his face in 
large, heavy drops.] 

THE MAN 

[Suddenly,'] Who knocks? 

THE PRIEST 

No one knocked. 

THE WOMAN 

[In a high, faint, perishing voice.] Who 
knocks ? 

[The Sister of Mercy rises and goes to the 

54 



The Birth of a Soul 

door. Opens and closes it, saying as 
she returns to her post:] 

THE SISTER OF MERCY 

There is no one there. 

THE WOMAN 

[Shrilly.'] Who came in just now? 

THE SISTER OF MERCY 

No one. It is I. 

THE WOMAN 

[In a low sighing tone,] It is the end. 

THE OTHER 

[In the shadow,] It is the beginning of 
the end. 

[A prolonged silence, save for the endless 
moaning and occasional convulsive cries 
of the woman. At last the Priest rises, 
and sits by the table. He pulls the 
shaded lamp towards him; and begins to 
read from a book:] 

THE PRIEST 

Unto us a child is born — 

[The woman sits up convulsively in bed, 
with her face turned almost round upon 
her right shoulder, her eyes staring in 
horror.] 

THE WOMAN 

Who touched me ? 

THE SISTER OF MERCY 

[Rising, 1 Hush ! 

55 



William Sharp 

[She comes over to the bed, gently per- 
suades the woman to lie back, and then 
kneels beside the bed.] 

THE SISTER OF MERCY 

There is no one here but those who love 
you. There is no one here but those whom 
you see. 

THE OTHER 

[In the shadow.] And I ! 

[In the heavy curtains behind the bed a 
current of air seems to move for a mo- 
ment] 

THE WOMAN 

[White with fear, whispering.'] Who sighed 
behind me? 

THE SISTER OF MERCY 

There is no one here but those who love 
you. There is no one here but those whom 
you see. 

[Again silence, butt for the monotonous 
moaning of the wontan. The clock 
strikes the quarter. The man rises, 
goes to the window, stares forth steadily, 
then returns.] 

THE MAN 

There is no one there. 

[The woman's limbs move slowly beneath 
the coverlet. Her breathing is high and 
quick, though ever and again it stops 

56 



The Birth of a Soul 

abruptly. Her hands wander restlessly 
to and fro, ceaslessly plucking at noth- 
ing.] 

THE SISTER OF MERCY (in G lOW Voice) . 

Ave Maria! 

[The woman's hands never cease their 
pluck, pluck, plucking at nothing.] 

THE PRIEST 

[Muttering to himself,'] It will soon be 
over. 

THE OTHER 

[In the shadow.] It has begun. 

[The man rises, goes to the window, stares 
forth steadily, then returns.] 

THE MAN 

There is no one there. 

[The woman's hands cease their wandering 
sidelong pluck, pluck, pluck. She raises 
both hands slowly, rigid, emaciated. 
When they are above her head they 
suddenly fall. The right strikes the 
wooden edge of the bed, and hangs stiffly 
by its side. The Sister of Mercy re- 
places it, the woman watching her 
fixedly.] 

THE PRIEST 

[Starting up suddenly, and trembling,'] IVly 
brethren, if so be — 

THE MAN 

[Pointing,] What — who — is that? 

57 



William Sharp 

THE PRIEST 

My son, there is nought there? 

THE MAN 

Who stirred in the deep shadow at the end 
of the bed? 

THE SISTER OF MERCY 

Hush ! for the love of God ! The woman is 
in labour. 

[There is a sound as of some one drowning 
in a morass: a horrible struggling and 
choking.] 

THE PRIEST 

[Holding up a small crucifix.] O God, 
have pity upon us ! 

THE SISTER OF MERCY 

O Christ, have pity upon us! 

THE MAN 

[Peering into the shadowy gloom at the end 
of the bed,} O Thou, have pity upon us ! 

THE PRIEST 

[Chanting.] O Death, where is thy sting! 

THE OTHER 

[In the shadow.li In thy birth, O Life ! 

THE PRIEST 

[Chanting.] O Grave, where is thy vic- 
tory! 

58 



The Birth of a Soul 

THE OTHER 

[In the shadow.'] I am come. 

[There is a sudden cessation of sound. 
The Sister of Mercy lifts something 
from the bed. There is a low, thin wail. 
The man does not see, and does not seem 
to hear. He kneels at his chair, but his 
head is turned away, and he stares 
fixedly toward the window.] 

THE SISTER OF MERCY 

She is dead. 

THE PRIEST 

O God, receive her soul! O Christ, have 
pity upon her ! O most Holy Mother of God, 
have mercy upon her ! 

THE OTHER 

[In the shadow.] Woman, abide yet a lit- 
tle. Give me thy life. 

THE SISTER OF MERCY 

The child liveth. It is a man-child. 

THE PRIEST 

[Touching the man.] It is a man-child. 

THE MAN 

[StUl staring fixedly at the window, re- 
peats, in a slow, dull voice.] It is a man- 
child. 

[The man slowly rises, turns, and walks to 
the bedside. He stares upon the dead 
face.] 

59 



William Sharp 

THE PRIEST 

[Ending rapidly.l As it was in the begin- 
ning — 

THE SISTER OF MERCY 

Is now — 

A VOICE 

{Near the window,^ And ever shall be. 

THE PRIEST 

[Trembling,'] Who spoke? 

THE SISTER OF MERCY 

No one. 

[The Priest falls on his knees and, cover- 
ing his eyes, prays fervently. The man 
lifts the child from the Sister's arms. 
Its eyes open upon him. As he looks 
at it his face grows ashy pale. His 
whole body trembles. His eyes seem as 
though they would strain from their 
sockets.] 

THE PRIEST 

[Rising, and in a loud, clear voice,] O 
Death, where is thy sting! 

[The man looks at what was the woman.) 

THE PRIEST 

O Grave, where is thy victory! 

THE MAN 

[Looking on the face of the child, who is 
fixedly staring beyond him,] Here, 

60 



A Northern Night 



That dark hour, obscurely minatory, in the 
tide of two lives . . . when, unforeseen and 
unrecognized, Love and Death come in at the 
Hood together, 

SlWAARMILL. 



A NORTHERN NIGHT 

[An hour after midnight. A desolate dis- 
trict of Northern Scotland, hentmed in 
by mountains and innumerable lochs and 
tarns and deep, narrow streams. In the 
remotest part of it, miles from the near- 
est hunt, a semi-ruinous "keep," lorsa 
Tower, at the extreme north end of Loch 
Malon. It is dead of winter. For weeks 
the land has been ice-bound. The deer 
and the hill-sheep are starving; only the 
corbies and eagles gorge their full. lorsa 
Keep stands out black against the snow- 
covered wilderness. A dull, red light, 
high up, like a staring eye, gleams under a 
projecting ledge. There is no sound but 
the occasional crack of the bitter frost, 
and, at intervals, the wind pressing in 
the frozen surface of the snow depths. 
In the one habitable room sit two figures, 
before a rude fire of pine-logs. Most of 
the room; is in deep shadow. The flick- 
ering flame-light discloses a small, deep- 
set window to the left. Between it and 
the hearth-place, and close to the wall, 
a bed, startlingly white in the midst 
of the gloom. Over it, on the wall, the 
flying lights flash momently on old dis- 
used weapons. 

In all the wild lands around there is not a 

63 



William Sharp 

living soul except the twain who sit be- 
fore the fire.] 

MALCOLM 

The black frost is about to break: I hear 
the wind ruffling the snow. 

HELDA 

Is it the snow ? 

MALCOLM 

Go to the window and look out. You will 
see the thin, frozen snow beginning to fly 
along the loch like spray. The wind rises. 

HELDA 

No ; I am afraid. 

MALCOLM 

IRising,!^ Then I will go. . . . See, the 
window is open, and you can now hear the 
wind. 

HELDA 

Oh, how cold it is. 

MALCOLM 

The wind is blowing from behind: it did 
not come in at the window. 

HELDA 

Yes, yes, it did: and . . . 

MALCOLM 

[Returning to Helda's side.] Is not the fire 
comforting? The logs are red-hot, sparkling 
and sputtering. 

64 



A Northern Night 

[Helda, slightly shivering, glances at him, 
and then draws nearer to the fire.] 

MALCOLM 

Are you not glad we are no longer on the 
ice? 

HELDA 

Yes : oh, yes, yes. 

MALCOLM 

And that we are here at last, we two ! Oh, 
Helda! 

HELDA 

Yes, I am glad that we are no longer upon 
the ice. 

MALCOLM 

Why do you repeat yourself, Helda? 

[Helda, in silence, looks straight before 
her into the fire.] 

MALCOLM 

Why are you glad? 

HELDA 

Because I feared that we were followed. 

MALCOLM 

Who would have followed us? Who could 
have followed us? 

[Helda stares fixedly, and in silence, at the 
glowing embers.] 

MALCOLM 

No one followed us. 

65 



William Sharp 

HELDA 

Thrice, when I looked behind my shoulder, 
I saw a shadow flying along the ice. 

MALCOLM 

The half-moon was as ruddy as a torch- 
flame. We should have seen any one who 
followed us. And when we reached the 
frozen loch we could see all around. 

HELDA 

It was there I saw the flying shadow 

MALCOLM 

I heard no one. I heard nothing. 

HELDA 

Nor I, except the hiss of the wind blowing 
the ice-spray over the loch. 

MALCOLM 

There was no wind. 

HELDA 

The ice-spray flew before the blast. I saw 
a little cloud of it behind. 

MALCOLM 

There was no wind. And now, I have told 
you, the wind is from behind the house. 

HELDA 

Then it blew toward the house. 

MALCOLM 

Well, it does not matter. " The wind com- 
eth and goeth." 

66 



A Northern Night 

HELDA 

[Slowly, and as to her self. } It cometh — 
and goeth. 

MALCOLM 

I wonder what they are doing at the cas- 
tle. The dancers will have gone now. Per- 
haps they will be putting out the lights. 

HELDA 

If we have been missed ? 

MALCOLM 

No one will miss us. But, if so, what then ? 
My father knows that those of us for whom 
there is not room in the castle will sleep for 
the night in some of the farm-houses near. 
As for you, if you are missed they will think 
you have skated back to Castle Urquhar. No 
one can know. We are as safe here, my 
beautiful Helda, as though we were in the 
grave. 

HELDA 

Hush! Do not say such things. 

MALCOLM 

Darling, we are safe here. We are miles 
from the nearest hut even. No one ever 
comes here. 

HELDA 

Malcolm, I wish — I wish — 

67 



William Sharp 

MALCOLM 

What is it, Helda? Speak. 

HELDA 

I wish we had not done this thing. He — 

MALCOLM 

Who? 

HELDA 

You know whom I mean : Archibald Graeme* 

MALCOLM 

Never mind that old man. You will have 
more than enough of him soon. Is it still 
fixed that the marriage is to take place ten 
days hence? 

HELDA 

He is a good man. He has saved my 
father from ruin. 

MALCOLM 

Will he take you away? Will he take you 
to the South-country? 

HELDA 

And he loved my mother. He loves me 
because he loved her. 

MALCOLM 

He is soon to be so passing rich, Helda. 
I am to starve, to famish for you, Helda. 

HELDA 

Dear, I love you with all my heart and 
with all my soul. You know it. I have 

68 



/i Northern Night 

given you my secret joy, my true life, my 
whole love, myself. 

MALCOLM 

Love like ours would redeem . . . 

HELDA 

Hark! 

MALCOLM 

It is the wind. 

HELDA 

It blows again across the loch, against the 
window. 

MALCOLM 

No, dear Helda, it is but an eddy. The 
wind rises more and more, but from the 
north. 

HELDA 

[Whispering,] Some white snow was 
blown up against the window ! 

MALCOLM 

Dearest, you are imagining. No snow can 
blow against this window with the wind as it 
is, for the gable shuts us off. 

HELDA 

[Trembling, and with hands claspt.] I 
saw a round drift of something pale as snow 
pressed against the window. 

MALCOLM 

I will convince you. 

69 



William Sharp 

[Rises, and opens the window. There is no 
snow on the sill. The wind strikes the 
Keep behind with a dull boom, and 
rushes overhead with an incessant 
screaming sound. But in front all is as 
quiet as though it were a windless night] 

MALCOLM 

See, dear, there is no snow: and hark! the 
wind blows steadily southward. 

[Closes the window, and returns to Helda's 
side.] 

HELDA 

Malcolm, you will not be angry with me — 
if I — if I . . . 

MALCOLM 

What? 

HELDA 

If I pray. I have not prayed for a long 
time from my heart. To-night I fear the 
darkness without a prayer. I will say no 
words, but I must pray. 

MALCOLM 

Pray if you will, Helda. 

HELDA 

Yes, . . • yes; ... I must pray! 

MALCOLM 

Dear, as you will. You would be alone? 
. . . See: I shall be in the corridor outside. 
Call me when you wish me to return. But 

70 



A Northern Night 

have mercy on me, sweetheart! Remember 
that there is no fire out there, and that the air 
is chill along those stone flags. 

[Rises and leaves the room. He has 

scarcely closed the door ere Helda cries 

loudly:] 

HELDA 

Malcolm! Malcolm! Come at once! Mal- 
colm ! 

MALCOLM 

[Abruptly re-entering, 1^ What is it? . . . 
what is it, Helda? Has anything frightened 
you? 

HELDA 

Yes, the whiteness at the window: the 
snow at the window! 

MALCOLM 

Oh, Helda, Helda, there is no snow at the 
window. 

HELDA 

Malcolm, are there any birds that fly by 
night ? 

MALCOLM 

The owls fly by night, but not at dead of 
winter. 

HELDA 

No bats, no moths? 

MALCOLM 

No. 

71 



William Sharp 

HELDA 

When I looked out at the window when 
we came in here I saw that there were no 
trees near, and that no ivy grows up this side 
of lorsa. 

MALCOLM 

There is none. 

HELDA 

[In a low, strained voice.] Malcolm, it 
was as though there were birds tapping at 
the window. 

MALCOLM 

You are nervous, darling. Come, let us 
forget the dark night, and the wind, and the 
bitter cold. We are here, and the world is 
ours to-night. 

HELDA 

Hush! There it is again! 

MALCOLM 

That sound is in the room. 

HELDA 

Malcolm ! Malcolm ! 

MALCOLM 

My foolish Helda, how easy it would be 
to frighten you. It is only a little insect in 
the wall. 

HELDA 

The death-watch? 

72 



A Northern Night 

MALCOLM 

Yes, the death-watch. 

HELDA 

[Shuddering,] It is a horrible name. 
Sst! How the wind wails. 

MALCOLM 

I hope . . . 

HELDA 

What? 

MALCOLM 

I hope it does not bring too much snow. 

HELDA 

Why? 

MALCOLM 

We are a long way from home, Helda. 

HELDA 

Do you fear that we cannot get back if the 
snow fall heavily? 

MALCOLM 

If it drifts we cannot skate. But there is 
no snow yet. There will be none before 
morning. 

HELDA 

Darling, I have lost all fear. I am with 
you. That is enough. If it were not for 
my father's sake, I wish we could die to- 
night ! 

73 



William Sharp 

MALCOLM 

My beautiful Helda, my darling, my heart's 
delight ! 

[They stand awhile together by the fire, she 
leaning against him', and his left arm 
round her. A log falls in. Another 
gives way with a crash. There is only 
a red gulf of pulsating glow, with over 
the last charred log pale blue frost- 
flames flickering fantastically. Suddenly 
they turn, and look into each other's 
eyes. Malcolm's shine strangely in the 
half-light, and his face has grown pale. 
A tremulous flush wavers upon Helda's 
face. His breathing comes quick and 
hard. She gives a low, scarce-heard 
sob.] 

MALCOLM 

My darling! 

HELDA 

Oh, Malcolm, Malcolm! 
[An hour passes. . . . 

The fire has fallen in, and smoulders be- 
neath such a weight of ash and charred 
wood that the room is in complete dark- 
ness. Outside, utter silence. The wind 
has suddenly lulled. Malcolm and Helda 
lie in each other's arms, but neither has 
spoken for some time.] 

HELDA 

Malcolm ! 

74 



A Northern Night 

MALCOLM 

My darling! 

HELDA 

You will not go to sleep? I am so happy, 
oh, I am so happy, here in your arms, Mal- 
colm; but I should be afraid if you slept. 

MALCOLM 

Do you think I would sleep, Helda, to- 
night of all nights in my life? 

HELDA 

{After a long silence, ^ It is so still. 

MALCOLM 

The wind has suddenly fallen. 

HELDA 

Move your arm, dear. Malcolm, . . . 
Malcolm, I wish it were not so dark! I 
never knew such darkness. 

MALCOLM 

The fire smoulders. It will not go out. 
When we rise, I shall blow the flame into life 
again. 

HELDA 

I wish it were not so profoundly, so fear- 
fully dark. 

MALCOLM 

Sweetheart, if you are unhappy, I will stir 

up the heart of it at once. I will do it now. 

[Rises from the bed, and stirs the smoulder- 

75 



William Sharp 

ing fire. A flame shoots up and illu- 
mines the room for a moment. Malcolm 
places a fresh log in the glowing hollow 
he has disclosed, and returns to Helda. 
She is cowering against the wall, and 
shivering with fear. As soon as he is 
beside her she clings close to him, and 
mioans faintly.] 

MALCOLM 

Helda, Helda, what ails you? What is it? 

HELDA 

Malcolm, let us go ; let us go at once ! 

MALCOLM 

Dearest, do not be so frightened at noth- 
ing. Are we to lose this precious night to- 
gether because of a death-watch ticking in 
the wall, or a blown leaf tapping against the 
window ? 

HELDA 

Oh, Malcolm, what was it? 

MALCOLM 

What? When? 

HELDA 

When you rose and stirred the logs, and 
the flame shot up for a moment, I saw . . . 

[Stops, shuddering.] 
MALCOLM 

Tell me, darling. . . . 

HELDA 

I saw some one — a — a — something — 

76 



A Northern Night 

rise from the end of the bed and slip into the 
darkness. 

MALCOLM 

Oh, foolish Helda, to be so easily fright- 
ened by my shadow. Of course my shadow 
followed me, dear! 

HELDA 

It was when you were at the fire! The — 
the — shadow was not yours. 

MALCOLM 

Ah, there is a wild bird fluttering in that 
little heart of yours ! 

HELDA 

Dear, when you kiss me so I fear nothing 
more. Nothing — nothing — nothing ! 

MALCOLM 

Nothing — nothing — nothing ! 

HELDA 

Ah, yes, hold me close, close! My dar- 
ling, I have given you all. Nothing now can 
come between us! 

MALCOLM 

Nothing, my beautiful Helda. And, dear 
[whispering], you do not wish to go yet? 
The morning is still far off. 

HELDA 

[Whispering lower still, and with a low, 
glad cry,'] Not now, not now! 

77 



William Sharp 

[Profound silence, save for their sighs and 
kisses.] 

MALCOLM 

[In a low voice,] And when old Archi- 
bald Graeme . . . 

HELDA 

[Starting half up,} Hark! What was 
that? 

MALCOLM 

[Listening.] It was nothing. Perhaps 
the wind rose and fell. 

HELDA 

[FearfullyKl If it was th€ wind, it is in 
the house ! I hear it lifting faintly from step 
to step. 

MALCOLM 

[Listening more intently.] There must be 
v/ind behind the house. It is causing 
draughts to play through the chinks and in 
the bare rooms. 

HELDA 

[Sitting up in bed and staring through the 
darkness.} It is in the corridor! 

MALCOLM 

In the corridor? 

HELDA 

Yes; that low, ruffling sound. 

78 



A Northern Night 

MALCOLM 

The wind is rising. 

HELDA 

[Whispering,] Malcolm, don't move; 
don't stir. It is at the door. 

MALCOLM 

I hear it : it is a current of air swirling the 
dust along the passage. 

HELDA 

{With a low cry.'] Oh, Malcolm, it is in 
the room! What is it that is moving so 
softly to and fro? 

MALCOLM 

[Springing from the bed,] Ah, I thought 
so. The window is open: I must have left 
the latch unfastened. There : it will not open 
again ! 

HELDA 

The window was not open before, Mal- 
colm. 

MALCOLM 

Ha! there is the snow at last! I hear its 
shovelling sound against the gable. Darling, 
we must go soon. 

HELDA 

[Sobbing with fear.] It is in the room! 
It is in the room! It is in the room! 

79 



William Sharp 

MALCOLM 

There is no one here but ourselves, Helda. 
That sound is the shoving of the snow along 
the walls. 

HELDA 

It is some one moving round the room. O 
Christ, help us! 

MALCOLM 

Listen ! 

[They both sit up, listening intently. For 
nearly three minutes there is profound 
silence.] 

HELDA 

Oh, my God! 

MALCOLM 

Be still, for God's sake! Do not move. 

HELDA 

[Shudderingly,'] Ah-h-h-h ! 

MALCOLM 

[In a low voice,] Some one is at the door. 

HELDA 

[In a dull echo.li Some one is at the door. 

MALCOLM 

[Whisperingly,] Quick, Helda! rise and 
dress. 

HELDA 

I cannot. Oh, my God, what is it that 
moves about the room? What is within the 
door? Oh, Malcolm, save me! 

80 



A Northern Night 

MALCOLM 

Let me go! Do not be frightened: I shall 
move that log, and then we shall see. 

[Rises, and pulls the log back. A shower of 
sparks ascends: and then a clear, yellow 
flame shoots up and illumines the room. 
There is a wild wail of wind in the 
chimney, and then a long, querulous 
sighing sound, culminating in a rising 
moan. A handful of sleety snow is 
dashed by a wind-eddy against the win- 
dow.] 

MALCOLM 

Arise ! 

HELDA 

Come to me. I — 

[Helda cowers back in her bed with, lips 
drawn taut with terror and eyes star- 
ing wildly.] 

MALCOLM 

[Suddenly, in a loud, imperative voice.'] 
Who is there? 

[Dead silence.] 
MALCOLM 

Who is there? 

[Dead silence] 
HELDA 

[With a strange, sobbing cry.] It is 
Death ! 

[She falls back in a death-like swoon.] 

8i 



William Sharp 

MALCOLM 

Oh, my God. 

[He takes Helda in his arms, kissing her 
passionately. Slowly, at last, she opens 
her eyes.] 

MALCOLM 

My darling, my darling! Be frightened 
no more, Helda! . . . Dearest, it is I. . . . 
Malcolm! . . . There is no one there. 

HELDA 

[Whispering.] Oh, Malcolm, did you hear 
what he said? 

MALCOLM 

You were frightened by the stillness; . . . 
by the wind; . . . the wandering eddies of 
air in this old place; ... by ... by .. . 

HELDA 

God grant it ! Dear, we have paid bitterly 
for our joy. 

MALCOLM 

Not too much, Helda! I would go 
through Hell itself for such rapture as we 
have known. 

HELDA 

My darling, I can never face him — I can 
never face him, with his fierce, penetrating 
eyes! Ah, would to God that we two could 
go away together, and be man and wife, and 
forget him — forget all ! 

82 



MBfl 



A Northern Night 

MALCOLM 

Even yet, Helda — 

HELDA 

No, no, no ! You know it cannot be. We 
have sinned enough. Malcolm, are you sure 
no one is there? 

MALCOLM 

There is not a living soul in this place be« 
sides ourselves. . . . But we had best go 
now, dear. In another hour it will be day- 
light. 

HELDA 

Shall we go, Malcolm ? It is so dark. 

[He kisses her tenderly, and then goes to 
the fire and stirs it afresh, hurriedly puts 
on his clothes, goes to the door, opens it, 
and, staring into the dark corridor, lis- 
tens intently. Helda dresses herself 
rapidly, and erelong glides to his side.] 

MALCOLM 

I will get the torch. 

[Goes and returns with it litl 

MALCOLM 

Let us go. Take my hand. 

[They descend the long, dark, winding stair- 
way. The torch spurtles and goes out.] 

MALCOLM 

[Suddenly,'] Who goes there? 

[No answer.] 

83 



William Sharp 

MALCOLM 

Who goes there? 

HELDA 

[Clinging close,] Some one brushed past 
me just now! . . . Oh, Malcolm! 

[Holding each other's hands they stumble 
on and, more by chance than foreknow- 
ledge, reach the door that leads into the 
court. They search awhile for the skates 
they left there, but in the dark do not 
find them. At last they are found. 
They go out, across the stone court, 
and as they go through the old ruined 
gate they look up. A brilliant, red light 
gleams through the window of the room 
they had been in. 
Hand in hand, they hasten along the snow- 
banked track till they reach the loch. 
There they hurriedly put on their skates. 
In less than a minute thereafter they are 
flying along the black ice, his left hand 
holding her right.] 

HELDA 

Quick, Malcolm! 

MALCOLM 

We cannot go quicker. The snow has 
drifted a little here. 

HELDA 

Is that the wind following us? 

84 



A Northern Night 

MALCOLM 

There is no wind. Make haste. We must 
not stop. 

[After a brief interval:] 

HELDA 

Malcolm! Malcolm there is some one else 
on the loch ! 

MALCOLM 

Impossible. Come, Helda, be brave. It 
will be daylight soon. In five minutes more 
we'll have crossed the reach, and then have 
only the Water of Sorrow to skate up till we 
come to the Black Kyle. 

HELDA 

It is coming this way! He — he — the 
skater — is coming this way! 

MALCOLM 

He must skate well if he overtake u^, 
Helda! Come, the ice is clearer again. I 
see it: it is blacker than the night. 

HELDA 

Are we going in the right direction? 

MALCOLM 

Yes, yes; come on, come on! 

[They fly along at their utmost speed. Sud- 
denly Helda sways, and almost falls. 
Malcolm supports her, and they skate 
on, but more slowly.] 

85 



William Sharp 

HELDA 

[Faintly,] Some one passed us! 

MALCOLM 

[Eagerly,} Look yonder! I can see the 
shadowy ridge of Ben Malon! It is day! 

HELDA 

I can go no further. Oh, hold me, Mal- 
colm. 

[He takes her in his arms. She slowly re- 
covers. Gradually an ashy grey gloom 
prevails to the eastward. They wait si- 
lently. Erelong they see the whole mass 
of Ben Malon looming through the dusk. 
The ice gleams like white salt in a dark 
cavern. Soon the loch is visible for some 
distance; and, a short way beyond them', 
the narrow mile-long reach of it known 
as the Water of Sorrow.] 

MALCOLM 

Helda, dearest, can you go on nov^? The 
night is over. . . . 

HELDA 

[With a low, choking sob,] Thank God, 
thank God! 

[They skate on. The dawn vaguely and 
slowly advances. Soon they enter the 
frozen Water of Sorrow. The few trees 
along its banks are still blotches of 
black. Neither speaks, but, hand in hand, 
both sway onward as scythes tirelessly 

86 



A Northern Night 

sweeping through leagues of grass. At 
last they reach the end of the Water 
of Sorrow, and enter the Black Kyle.] 

MALCOLM 

In ten minutes, Helda, we'll be on Urquhar 
Water, and then you will be almost at home. 
Look behind! A white mist is sweeping 
along after us. 

HELDA 

I dare not look behind. 

[With strained eyes and white, rigid face, 
Helda skates on, Malcolm still holding 
her hand. The white wreath of mist 
gains on them. Helda's breath comes 
quick and hard, but she increases her 
speed. Malcolm sways as he strives to 
keep up with her. They swing out of 
the Black Kyle and into Urquhar Water. 
A small islet looms in front of them. 
Dimly through the grey, chill gloom 
rises the rugged outlines of Urquhar. 
The loch forks, — one fork toward the 
castle; the other, and longer, to the 
right] 

MALCOLM 
Why? 

HELDA 

I dare not look behind. 

HELDA 

[Gaspingly.li At last! 



William Sharp 

MALCOLM 

Sst! There is some one coming down the 
Narrow Water! 

HELDA 

Quick! quick! Let us gain the islet! 

[They reach it, and Helda sinks exhausted 
among a bed of reeds which crackle 
loudly. Malcolm has just time to re- 
cover his balance and to swing round, 
when a skater dashes from the hidden 
Narrow and flies across the broad and 
towards the islet. He sees Malcolm, 
and hastes in his direction, but without 
coming right for him. Malcolm recog- 
nises him as Martin Brooks, a groom 
from Urquhar.] 

MALCOLM 

[Shouting.'] Ho! Martin! Martin! Stop 
a moment! Where are you going? Is the 
side- way open? 

MARTIN 

[Calling, as he swerves for a moment or 
two,] I can't stop, sir! I am off across the 
loch and through the Glen of Dusker to fetch 
Dr. James Graeme. 

MALCOLM 

What is wrong? 

MARTIN 

[Shouting, with his hand to his mouth,] In 
the dead o' night we heard a wild cry, but no 

88 



A Northern Night 

one knew what it was. An hour ago or less 
the dogs were howling through the house. 
. . . We found him, sitting straight up and 
staring at us, with an awful look on his face, 
stone dead. He must a' died at midnight. 

MALCOLM 

Who? Who? 

MARTIN 

[Poising a moment, ere he swings away 
again,'] Archibald Graeme! 

[His flying figure disappears in the gloom. 
The mist-wreath comes rapidly out of 
the kyle towards the islet. A thin snow 
begins to fall] 

HELDA 

[Shaken with convulsive sohs.] Oh, God! 
Oh, God! Oh, God! 



89 



Qu' horribles, ces heures nocturnes! 

Le Barbare. 



The Black Madonna 



THE BLACK MADONNA 

[The fire of the setting sun turns the ex- 
treme of the forest into a wave of 
flame. A river of withdrawing light per- 
vades the aisles of the ancient trees, and, 
falling over the shoulder of a vast, 
smooth slab of stone that rises solitary in 
an open place, pours in a flood across 
the glade and upon the broken columns 
and inchoate ruins of what in immemo- 
rial time had been a gigantic temple, the 
fane of a perished god, or of many gods. 
As the flaming disc rapidly descends, the 
stream of red light narrows, till, quiver- 
ing and palpitating, it rests as a bloody 
sword upon a colossal statue of black 
marble, facing westward. The statue is 
that of a woman, and is as of a Titan of 
old-time. 

A great majesty is upon the face, with 
its moveless yet seeing eyes; its faint, 
inscrutable smile. Upon the triple- 
ledged pedestal, worn at the edges like 
tmto swords ground again and again, 
lie masses of large white flowers, whose 
heavy fragrance rises in a faint blue 
vapor drawn forth with the sudden sus- 
piration of the earth by the first twi- 
light chill. 

In the wide place beyond the white slab 
of stone — hurled thither, or raised, 

93 



William Sharp 

none knows when or how — is gathered 
a dark multitude, silent, expectant. 
Many are Arab tribesmen, the remnant 
of a strange sect driven southward; but 
most are Nubians, or that unnamed, 
swarthy race to whom both Arab and 
Negro are as children. All, save the 
priests, of whom the elder are clad in 
white robes and the younger girt about 
by scarlet sashes, are naked. Behind 
the men, at a short distance apart, are 
the women; each virgin with an ivory 
circlet round the neck, each mother or 
pregnant woman with a thin gold band 
round the left arm. Between the long 
double line of the priests and the silent 
multitude stands a group of five youths 
and five maidens; each victim crowned 
with heavy, drooping, white flowers; 
each motionless, morose; all with eyes 
fixt on the trodden earth at their feet. 
The younger priests suddenly strike 
together square brazen cymbals, deeply 
chased with signs and letters of a perished 
tongue. A shrill, screaming cry goes up 
from the people, followed by a prolonged 
silence. Not a man moves, not a woman 
sighs. Only a shiver contracts the skin 
of the foremost girl in the small central 
group. Then the elder priests advance 
slowly, chanting monotonously:] 

CHORUS OF THE PRIESTS 

We are thy children, O mighty Mother! 
We are the slain of thy spoil, O Slayer! 

94 



The Black Madonna 

We are thy thoughts that are fulfilled, O 

Thinker! 
Have pity upon us! 

[And front all the multitude comes as with 
one shrill, screaming voice:] 

Have pity upon us! Have pity upon us! 
Have pity upon us! 

THE PRIESTS 

Thou wast, before the first child came 
through the dark gate of the womb! 

Thou wast, before ever woman knew man! 

Thou wast, before the shadow of man moved 
athwart the grass! 

Thou wast, and thou art! 

THE MULTITUDE 

Have pity upon us! Have pity upon us! 
Have pity upon us! 

THE PRIESTS 

Hail, thou who art more fair than the dawn, 

more dark than night! 
Hail, thou, white as ivory or veiled in 

shadow! 
Hail, thou of many names, and immortal! 
Hail, Mother of God, Sister of the Christ, 

Bride of the Prophet! 

THE MULTITUDE 

Have pity upon us! Have pity upon us! 
Have pity upon us! 

95 



William Sharp 

THE PRIESTS 

O moon of night, O morning star! Con- 
soler! Slayer! 

Thou, who lovest shadow, and fear, and sad- 
den death! 

Who art the smile that looks upon women 
and children! 

Who hast the heart of man in thy grip as in 
a vice; 

Who hast his pride and strength in thy sigh 
of yestereve; 

Who hast his being in thy breath that goeth 
forth, and is not! 

THE MULTITUDE 

Have pity upon us! Have pity upon us! 
Have pity upon us! 

THE PRIESTS 

We know thee not, nor the way of the, O 

Queen! 
But we bring thee what thou lovedst of old, 

and forever: 
The white Aozvers of our forests and the red 

flowers of our bodies! 
Take them and slay not, O Slayer! 
For we are thy slaves, O Mother of Life! 
We are the dust of thy tireless feet, O 

Mother of God! 

[As the white-robed priests advance slowly 

96 






The Black Madonna 

towards the Black Madonna, the younger 
tear off their scarlet sashes, and, seizing 
the five maidens, bind them together, left 
arm to right and hand to hand : and then 
in like fashion do they bind the five 
youths. Thereafter the victims move 
silently forward, till they pass through 
the ranks of the priests and stand upon 
the lowest edge of the pedestal of the 
great statue. Toward each steps, and be- 
hind each stands, a naked priest, each 
holding a narrow, irregular sword of 
antique fashion.] 

THE ELDER PRIESTS 

Mother of God! 

THE YOUNGER PRIESTS 

O Slayer, be pitiful! 

THE VICTIMS 

O Mother of God! Slayer! be merciful! 

THE MULTITUDE 

[In a loud, screaming voice.] Have pity 
upon us! Have pity upon us!. Have pity 
upon us! 

[The last blood-red gleam fades from the 
Black Madonna, and flashes this way and 
that for a moment from the ten sword- 
knives that cut the air and plunge be- 
neath the shoulders and to the heart of 
each victim. A wide spirt of blood rains 
up on the white flowers at the base of 
the colossal figure; where also speedily 

97 



William Sharp 

He, dark amidst welling crimson, the 
motionless bodies of the slain.] 

THE PRIESTS 

Behold, Mother of God, 

The white flowers of our forests and the red 

flowers of our bodies! 
Have pity, O Compassionate! 
Be merciful, O Queen! 

THE MULTITUDE 

Have pity upon us! Have pity upon us! 
Have pity upon us! 

[But at the swift coming of the darkness, 
the priests hastily cover the dead with 
the masses of the white flowers; and 
one by one, and group by group, the 
multitude melts away. When all are 
gone save the young chief Bihr, and a 
few of his following, the priests pros- 
trate themselves before the Black Ma- 
donna, and pray to her to vouchsafe a 
sign. 

From the mouth of the carven figure comes 
a hollow voice, muffled as the reverbera- 
tion of thunder among distant hills:] 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

I hearken. 

THE PRIESTS 

[Prostrate.'] Wilt thou slay, O Slayer? 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

Yea, verily. 

98 



The Black Madonna 

THE PRIESTS 

[In a rising chant.] Wilt thou save, O 
Mother of God? 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

I save. 

THE PRIESTS 

Can one see thee and live ? 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

At the Gate of Death. 

[Whereafter no sound comes from the 
statue, already dim in the darkness that 
has crept from the forest. The priests 
rise, and disappear in silent groups under 
the trees. 
The thin crescent ntoon slowly wanes. A 
phosphorescent glow from orchids and 
parasitic growths shimmers intermit- 
tently in the forest. A wavering beam of 
starlight falls upon the right breast of 
the Black Madonna; then slowly down- 
ward to her feet; then upon the motion- 
less figure of Bihr, the warrior-chief. 
None saw him steal thither; none knows 
that he has braved the wrath of the 
slayer: for it is the sacred time, when 
it is death to enter the glade.] 

BIHR 
[In a low voice,'] Speak, Spirit that dwell- 

eth here from of old Speak, for I 

would have word with thee. I fear thee not, 
O Mother of God, for the priests of the 

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William Sharp 

Christ who is thy brother say that thou wert 

but a woman. . . . And it may be — it may 

be — what say the children of the Prophet? 

— that there is but one God, and he is Allah. 

[Deep silence. From the desert beyond the 

forest comes the hollow roaring of 

lions.] 

BIHR 
[/n a loud chant,] To the north and to 
the east I have seen many figures like unto 
thine, gods and goddesses: some mightier 
than thou art — vast sphinxes by the flood of 
Nilus, gigantic faces rising out of the sands 
of the desert. And none spake, for silence 
is come upon them; and none slays, for the 
strength of the gods passes away even as the 
strength of men. 

[Deep silence. From the obscure waste of 
the forest come snarling cries, long- 
drawn howls, and the low, moaning sigh 
of the wind.] 

BIHR 
[Mockingly,] For I will not be thrall to a 
woman, and the priests shall not bend me to 
their will as a slave unto the yoke. If thou 
thyself art God, speak, and I shall be thy 
slave to do thy will. . . . Thrice have I come 
hither at the new moon, and thrice do I go 
hence uncomforted. . . . What voice was 
that which spoke ere the victims died? I 

ICG 



The Black Madonna 

know not ; but it hath reached mine ears never 
save when the priests are by. Nay [laughing 
low], O Mother of God, I — 

[Suddenly he trembles all over and falls on 
his knees, for from the blackness above 
him comes a voice:] 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

What would'st thou ? 

BIHR 

[Hoarsely,] Have mercy upon me, O 
Queen ! 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

What would' St thou ? 

BIHR 

I worship thee, Mother of God! Slayer 
and Saver! 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

What would'st thou ? 

BIHR 

[Tremulously,] Show me thyself, thyself, 
even for this one time, O Strength and Wis- 
dom! 

[Deep silence. The wind in the forest 
passes away with a faint wailing sound. 
The dull roaring of lions rises and falls 
in the distance. A soft, yellow light il- 
lumes the statue, as though another moon 
were rising behind the temple. 
A great terror comes upon Bihr the Qiief, 
and he falls prostrate at the base of the 
Black Madonna. 

lOI 



William Sharp 

His eyes are open, but they see naught save 
the burnt spikes of trodden grass, sere 
and stiff save where damp with newly 
shed blood; and deaf are his ears, though 
he waits for he knows not what sound 
from above. 

Suddenly he starts, and the sweat mats the 
hair on his forehead when he feels a 
touch on his right shoulder. Looking 
slowly round he sees a wontan, tall and 
of a lithe and noble body. He sees that 
her skin is dark, yet not of the black- 
ness of the South. Two spheres of 
wrought gold cover her breasts; and 
from the serpentine zone round her 
waist is looped a dusky veil, spangled 
with shining points. In her eyes, large 
as those of the desert-antelope, is the 
loveliness and the pathos and the pain 
of twilight.] 

BIHR 

[Trembling,] Art thou — art thou — 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

I am she whom thou worshippest. 

BIHR 

[Looking at the colossal statue, irradiated 
by the strange light that comes he knows not 
whence; and then at the beautiful apparition 
by his side.'] Thou art the Black Madonna, 
the Mother of God! 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

Thou sayest it. 

102 



The Black Madcnna 

BIHR 

[Slowly raising himself, and resting on one 
knee,] Thou hast heard my prayer, O 
Queen ! 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

Even so. 

BIHR 

[Taking heart because of the sweet and 
thrilling humanity of the goddess.'] O Slayer 
and Saver, is the lightning thine and the fire 
that is in the earth? Canst thou whirl the 
stars as from a sling, and light the moun- 
tainous lands to the South with falling me- 
teors? O Queen, destroy me not, for I am 
thy slave, and weaker than thy breath: but 
canst thou stretch forth thine hand and say 
yea to the lightning, and bid silence unto the 
thunder ere it breed the bolts that smite? 
For if — 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

I make and I unmake. This cometh and 
that goeth, and I am — 

BIHR 

And thou art — 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

I was Ashtaroth of old. Men have called 
me many names. All things change, but I 
change not. Know me, O slave! I am the 

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William Sharp 

Mother of God. I am the Sister of the 
Christ. I am the Bride of the Prophet. 

BIHR 

[With awe.] And thou art the very- 
Prophet, and the very Christ, and the very 
God! Each speaketh in thee, who art older 
than they are : each — 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

I am the Prophet. 

BIHR 

Hail, O Lord of Deliverance! 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

I am the Christ, the Son of God. 

BIHR 

Hail, O most Patient, most Merciful ! 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

I am the Lord thy God. 

BIHR 

Hail, Giver of Life and Death! 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

Yet here none is; for each goeth or each 
Cometh as I will. I only am eternal. 

BIHR 

[Crawling forward and kissing her feet.] 
Behold, I am thy slave to do thy will: thy 
sword to slay : thy spear to follow : thy hound 
to track to thine enemies. I am dust beneath 
thy feet. Do with me as thou wilt. 

104 



The Black Madonna 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

[Slowly, and looking at hint strangely.] 
Thou shalt be my High Priest. . . . Come 
back to-morrow, an hour after the setting of 
the sun. 

[As Bihr the Chief rises and goes into the 
shadow, she stares steadily after him; 
and a deep fear dwells in the twilight 
of her eyes. Then, turning, she stands 
awhile by the slain bodies of the vic- 
tims of the sacrifice; and, having lightly 
brushed away with her foot the flow- 
ers above each face, looks long on the 
mystery of death. And when at last 
she glides by the great statue and 
passes into the ruins beyond, there is 
no longer any glow of light, and a deep 
darkness covers the glade. Froi^ the 
deeper darkness beyond comes the howl- 
ing of hyenas, the shrill screaming of a 
furious beast of prey, and the sudden 
bursting roar of lion answering lion. 

When the dawn breaks, and a pale, waver- 
ing light glimmers athwart the smooth, 
white crag that, on the farther verge 
of the glade, faces the Black Madonna, 
there is nought upon the pedestal save 
a ruin of bloodied, trampled flowers, 
though the sere, yellow grass is stained 
in long trails across the open. The 
dawn withdraws again, but ere long 
suddenly wells forth, and it is as though 
the light wind were bearing over the 

105 



William Sharp 

forest a multitude of soft, grey fea- 
thers from the breasts of doves. Then 
the dim concourse of feathers is as 
though innumerable leaves of wild roses 
were falling, falling, petal by petal un- 
curling into a rosy flame that wafts up- 
ward and onward. The stars have 
grown suddenly pale, and the fires of 
Phosphor burn green in the midst of a 
palpitating haze of pink. With a 
mighty rush, the sun swings through the 
gates of the East, tossing aside his 
golden, fiery mane as he fronts the new 
day. 

And the going of the day is from morning 
silence unto noon silence, and from the 
silence of the afternoon unto the silence 
of the eve. Once more, towards the set- 
ting of the sun, the multitude comes out 
of the forest, from the east and from the 
west, and from the north and from the 
south; once more the priests sing the sa- 
cred hymns : once more the people sup- 
plicate as with one shrill, screaming 
voice. Have pity upon us! Have pity 
upon us! Have pity upon us! Once 
more the victims are slain : of little 
children who might one day shake the 
spear and slay, five; and of little chil- 
dren who would one day bear and bring 
forth, five. 

Yet again an hour passes after the setting 
of the sun. There is no moon to lighten 
the darkness and the silence; but a soft 
glow falleth from the temple, and upon 

io6 



The Black Madonna 

the man who kneels before the Black 
Madonna. But when Bihr, having no 
sign vouchsafed, and hearing no sound, 
and discerning nought upon the carven 
face, neither tremor of the lips nor life 
in the lifeless eyes, suddenly sees the 
goddess, glorious in her beauty that is 
as of the night, coming towards him 
from out of the ruins, his heart leaps 
within him in strange joy and dread. 
Scarce knowing what he does, he springs 
to his feet, trembling as a reed that 
leans against the flank of a lioness by 
the water-pool.] 

BIHR 

[Yearning, with supplicating arms.] Hail, 
God! . . . Goddess! Most Beautiful! 

[She draws nigh to him, looking at hint the 
while out of the deep twilight of her 
eyes.] 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

What would'st thou? 

BIHR 

[Wildly, stepping close, but halting in 
dread,] Thou art no Mother of God, O God- 
dess, Queen, Most Beautiful! 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

What would'st thou, O blind fool that art 
so in love with death? 

107 



William Sharp 

BIHR 

[Hoarsely,] Make me like unto thyself, 
for I love thee ! 

[Deep silence. From afar on the desert 
comes the dull roaring of lions by the 
water-courses; from the forest, a mur- 
murous sound as of baffled winds snared 
among the thick-branched ancient trees.] 

BIHR 

[Sobbing as one zvounded in flight by an 
arrow.'] For I love thee! I — love — thee! 
I — 

[Deep silence. A shrill screaming of a bird 
fascinated by a snake comes from the 
forest. Beyond, from the desert, a long, 
desolate moaning and howling, where the 
hyenas prowl.] 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

When . . . did . . . thy folly, . . . this 
madness, . . . come upon thee, . , . O fool? 

BIHR 

[Passionately.] O Most Beautiful! Most 
Beautiful ! Thee — Thee — will I worship ! 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

Go hence, lest I slay thee! 

BIHR 

Slay, O Slayer, for thou art Life and 
Death ! . . , But I go not hence. I love thee ! 
I love thee ! I love thee ! 

io8 



Dlfl 



The Black Madonna 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

I am the Mother of God. 

BIHR 

I love thee ! 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

God dwelleth in me. I am thy God. 

BIHR 

I love thee ! 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

Go hence, lest I slay thee ! 

BIHR 

Thou tremblest, O Mother of God! Thy 
lips twitch, thy breasts heave, O thou who 
callest thyself God! 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

[Raising her right arm menacingly,'] Go 
hence, thou dog, lest thou look upon my face 
no more. 

[Then suddenly, with bowed head and shak- 
ing limbs, Bihr the Chief turns and 
passes into the forest. And as he fades 
into the darkness, the Black Madonna 
stares a long while after hint, and a deep 
fear broods in the twilight of her eyes. 
But by the bodies of the slain children 
she passes at last, and with a shudder 
looks not upon their faces, but strews 
the heavy white flowers more thickly 
upon them. 
The darkness comes out of the darkness, 

109 



William Sharp 

billow welling forth from spent billow 
on the tides of night. On the obscure 
waste of the glade, nought moves save 
the gaunt shadow of a hyena that crawls 
from column to column. From the black- 
ness beyond swells the long, thunderous 
howl of a lioness, echoing the hollow 
blasting roar of a lion standing, with 
eyes of yellow flame, on the summit of 
the mass of smooth rock that faces the 
carven Madonna. 

And when the dawn breaks, and long lines 
of pearl-gray wavelets ripple in a flood 
athwart the black-green sweep of the 
forest, there is nought upon the pedestal 
but red flowers that once were white, 
rent and scattered this way and that. 
The cool wind moving against the east 
ruffles the opaline flood into a flying 
foam of pink, wherefrom mists and va- 
pors rise on wings like rosy flames; and 
as they rise, their crests shine as with 
blazing gold, and they fare forth after 
the Morn that leaps towards the Sun. 

And the going of the day is from morning 
silence unto noon silence, and from the 
silence of the afternoon unto the silence 
of eve. Once more, towards the setting 
of the sun, the multitude comes out of 
the forest, from the east and from the 
west, and from the north and from the 
south. Once more the priests sing the 
sacred hymns : once more the people sup- 
plicate as with one shrill, screaming 
voice, Have pity upon us! Have pity 

1 10 



The Black Madonna 

upon us! Have pity upon us! Once 
more the victims are slain: five chiefs of 
captives taken in war; and unto each 
chief two warriors in the glory of youth. 
Yet an hour after the setting of the sun. 
Lightless the silence and the dark save 
for the soft, yellow gleam that falleth 
from the temple, and upon the man who, 
crested with an ostrich plume bound by 
a heavy circlet of gold, with a tiger-skin 
about his shoulders, and with a great 
spear in his hand, stands beyond the 
statue and nigh unto the ruins, where no 
man has ventured and lived.] 

BIHR 
[With loud, triumphant voice,] Come forth 
my Bride! 

[Deep silence, save for the sighing of the 
wind among the upper branches of the 
trees, and the panting of the flying deer 
beyond the glade.] 

BIHR 

{Striking his spear against the marble 
steps,] Come forth, Glory of my eyes! 
Come forth, Pride of my delight! 

[Deep silence. Then there is a faint sound, 
and the Black Madonna stands beside 
Bihr the Chief. And the man is wrought 
to madness by her beauty, and lusts after 
her, and possesses her with the passion 
of his eyes.] 

Ill 



William Sharp 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

[Trembling, and strangely troubled,] What 
would'st thou? 

BIHR 

Thee! 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

[Slowly.] Young art thou, Bihr, in thy 
comeliness and strength to be so in love with 
death. 

BIHR 

Who giveth life ? and who death ? It is not 
thou, nor I. 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

[Shuddering,] It cometh. None can stay 
it. 

BIHR 

Not thou? Even thou canst not stay it. 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

[Whisperingly.] Nay, Bihr; and this thing 
thou knowest in thy heart. 

BIHR 

[Mockingly.] O Mother of God ! O Sister 
of Christ ! O Bride of the Prophet ! 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

[Putting her hand to her heart.] What 
would'st thou? 

BIHR 

Thee! 

112 



The Black Madonna 

THE BLACK MADONNA 

I am the Slayer, the Terrible, the Black 
Madonna. 

BIHR 

And lo, thy God laugheth at thee, even as at 
me and mine. And lo, I am come for thee; 
for I have made myself his Prophet, and thou 
art to be my Bride. 

[As he finishes he turns towards the great 
Statue of the Black Madonna and, laugh- 
ing, hurls his spear against its breast, 
whence the weapon rebounds with a loud 
clang. Then, ere the woman knows what 
he has done, he leaps to her and seizes 
her in his grasp, and kisses her upon the 
lips, and grips her with his hands till 
the veins sting in her arms. And all the 
sovereignty of her lonely godhood passes 
from her like the dew before the hot 
breath of the sun, and her heart throbs 
against his side so that his ears ring as 
with the clang of the gongs of battle. 
He sobs low, as a man amidst baffling 
waves; and in the hunger of his desire 
she sinks as one who drowns. 
Together they go up the long, flat marble 
steps; together they pass into the dark- 
ness of the ruins. From the deeper dark- 
ness beyond comes no sound, for the 
forest is strangely still. Not a beast of 
prey comes nigh unto the slain victims 
of the sacrifice, not a vulture falls like 
a cloud through the night. Only, from 



William Sharp 

afar, the dull roaring of the lions bil- 
lows heavily from the water-courses on 
the desert. 

And the wind that blows in the night comes 
with rain and storm', so that when the 
dawn breaks it is as a sea of sullen waves 
grey with sleet. But calm cometh out of 
the blood-red splendor of the east. 

And on this, the morning of the fourth and 
last day of the Festival of the Black Ma- 
donna, the multitude of her worshippers 
come forth from the forest, singing a 
glad song. In front go the warriors, the 
young men brandishing spears, and with 
their knives in their left hands cutting 
the flesh upon their sides and upon their 
thighs: the men of the North clad in 
white garb and heavy burnous, the tribes- 
men of the South naked save for their 
loin-girths, but plumed as for war. 

But as the priests defile beyond them upon 
the glade, a strange, new song goes up 
from' the shaven lips; and the people 
tremble, for they know that some dire 
thing has happened.] 

THE PRIESTS 

[Chanting.] Lo, when the law of the 
Queen is fulfilled, she passeth from her people 
awhile. For the Mother of God loveth the 
world, and would go in sacrifice. So loveth 
us the Mother of God that she passeth in sac- 
rifice. Behold, she perisheth, who dieth not! 
Behold, she dieth, who is immortal! 

114 



/ 



The Black Madonna 

[Whereupon a great awe comes on the mul- 
titude, as they behold smoke, whirling and 
darkly fulgurant, issuing from the mouth 
and nostrils of the Black Madonna. But 
this awe passes into horror, and horror 
into wild fear, when great tongues of 
flame shoot forth amidst the wreaths of 
smoke, and when from forth of the Black 
Madonna come strange and horrible cries, 
as though a mortal woman were perishing 
by the torture of fire. 

With shrieks the women turn and fly: hurl- 
ing their spears from them, the men dash 
wildly to the forest, heedless whither 
they flee. 

But those that leap to the westward, where 
the great white rock facing the Black Ma- 
donna stands solitary, see for a moment, 
in the glare of sunrise, a swarthy, naked 
figure, with a tiger-skin about the shoul- 
ders, crucified against the smooth white 
slope. Down from the outspread hands 
of Bihr the Chief trickle two long waver- 
ing streamlets of blood : two long stream- 
lets of blood drip, drip down the white, 
glaring face of the rock from the pierced 
feet] 



IIS 



v 



The Last Quest 



^ 



Death hath not yet come unto the man who 
knoweth not that he is dead, 

Johannes Arbiter: Myst. 



THE LAST QUEST 

[As in a vision . . . the furious charge 
through the smoke and across the corpse^ 
strewn battlefield: the neighing and solx 
bing of horses; the hoarse cries, the sudv 
den screams of men : the clang and whis- 
tle of swords: the shrill spurting of a 
hail of bullets: the bursting crash and 
roar of artillery: a wild rush, a wild on- 
slaught, and — Victory! . . . and . . .] 

And as I clomb the barren and difficult 
steep, I yearned for a fellow-creature, for 
but the hollow echo of a distant voice, even 
more than for escape from the twilit solitudes 
of this hill whereup I toiled, forgetful whence 
I came and knowing not whither I went. 
And it seemed to me as though years upon 
years went over me in my long, ceaseless 
effort ; but when, with a triumph that was yet 
no triumph, at last I gained the crest, I still 
heard in my ears the fanfare of the bugles, 
the clash of swords, the mad rush and fury 
and turmoil of the charge, while my lips 
quivered still with the sudden scream of 
Victory. 

And when I stood upon the summit, I saw 
that I was in a strange land. Behind me lay 

119 



William Sharp 

a vast plain, margined afar off in the direction 
by which it seemed to me I had come, by 
obscure, impenetrable forests. Immeasurably 
upon this plain was ruin of ungarnered har- 
vest. Leagues upon leagues to the east and 
west without end, and everywhere the grain 
ungathered ; and nought astir save a thin dust 
of chaff, idly blown hither and thither by a 
wind that was yet too light to move the dark 
poppies that lay in the hollows, — too faint to 
bend an ear of that unlifted grain. Veiled 
moonlight shone upon the waste, so that even 
through the gloom I could see that nought 
moved, nought stirred : not even an owl swept 
with stealthy wing above the forlorn lands, 
not even a bat circled through the dusk, not 
even a cloud trailed a deeper shadow from 
solitude to solitude. But as I looked closer 
and wonderingly, and now with a great weari- 
ness of longing, I saw that every here and 
there the sheaves had been brought together 
as though the reapers had suddenly ceased 
from their labour and had gone to make ready 
for the harvesting. Yet, for the most part, 
the sheaves were but loosely gathered, and all 
untied, and with the ground near strewn with 
the rich grain that had, as it were, been 
abruptly dropped. And everywhere, far and 
wide, were single sheaves or small gatherings, 

1 20 



The Last Quest 

as though the harvesters had been weary or 
heedless; and often sheaves that seemed as 
though they had been wittingly defiled or de- 
stroyed. But now all the ungarnered harvest 
lay silently there in the twilight; and no man 
came unto that which was ready for the gath- 
ering, and no man passed by that which had 
been idly thrown aside or ruined in wanton- 
ness. And amidst it all, this vast harvest 
which stretched beyond sight to the uttermost 
ends of the earth, there was nothing further 
visible but the dark-red poppies of oblivion. 
Of all this immeasurable toil, of all this ma- 
jesty of desolation, there was nought save a 
thin, vanishing dust of chaff, faint as a per- 
ishing smoke over woodlands where a fire 
has been, but is no more. 

Then as one rousing from sleep into day- 
light, I turned and looked beyond me. Be- 
hold, here too was a vast plain that stretched 
beyond the scan of mortal eyes. The sun- 
light lay upon it, and it was glorious to look 
upon. A sweet wind came out of the blue 
hollows of the sky, where white clouds voy- 
aged bearing soft rains and cool shadows : and 
there was so wild and glad a music of birds 
over the illimitable savannas of golden grain, 
and of young corn green as the heart of a 
shallow sea, that I felt as though all the joy 

121 



William Sharp 

of my youth was upon me, and my he. A 
swelled, and the blood stung in my vein ly 
But ere long I looked with amazement, foi- 
in all that unf rontiered land beyond me I saw 
neither man nor woman. Yet evermore, 
from the east to the west, swept a gigantic 
shadow like unto a scythe: and where the 
shadow swept, the grain fell. And when I 
looked again I beheld a mighty Shape, clothed 
in the dusk of shadow as with a veil, and clad 
with dropping decays as with a tattered robe 
rent by the wind. Ever and forever the 
Reaper strode, with blind, oblivious eyes, with 
vast scythe furrowing the sunlit grain : and it 
seemed to me, while I watched, as though the 
minutes passed into hours, and the hours into 
days, and the days into years, and the years 
into the timeless wastes of eternity. Looking 
suddenly back upon the twilit land which first 
I had brooded upon, I saw that its margins 
were as the moving tides of ocean, and that 
the Reaper reaped where the grain grew by 
the fallen grain. And there was no rest, no 
end to the long sweep of the shadowy scythe. 
Ever, forever, the scythe swept: ever, for- 
ever, the grain fell. The sun shone, the birds 
sang, the world smiled; and, by the margins 
of the Hollow Land, where the grain rose the 
grain fell. 

122 



The Last Quest 

Then a terror that was of life overmastered 
the terror that was of death, and I strained 
my eyes so that I might see some living thing 
of my own kind. But only the rays of the 
sun penetrated the womb of the earth, and 
only the endless concourse of the grain was 
delivered of the unwearying mother. It 
seemed to me, then, as though the green corn 
and the golden ears were but as the multitude 
of lives that come forth at the rising of the 
sun, and are no more at the setting. And as 
I looked with awe and terror upon the Reaper, 
who reaped forever and ever where the grain 
rose and the grain fell, I turned and stared 
beyond the westering sun. And lo, I beheld 
yet Another, A glory of golden light he 
seemed, clad with ever evanishing rainbows, 
and crowned with the auroral flames of sum- 
mer dawns. 

Vast was he as the Reaper ; but as he fared 
beyond the pathway of the sun, he was as the 
glory and joy of eternal youth. He, too, 
swayed an arm, even as the mighty scythe- 
sweep of the Reaper, an arm of glowing light : 
and therewith I saw that he sowed a living 
seed forever and ever. As I watched the 
Sower in the blinding splendour of the sun- 
light, it seemed to me that he moved onward 
as he sowed; and it was with me as though 

123 



William Sharp 

the minutes were like unto hours, and the 
hours like unto days, and the days unto years, 
and the years unto the immeasurable wastes 
of eternity. 

Then, with a great cry, I ran down the 
slopes of the steep whereon I was; for my 
heart was fain to follow the beautiful Sower, 
and my soul full of dread of the Reaper that 
reaped forever. But when I came unto the 
base of the hill, and to the end of the gloomy 
pass that issued thence, I went no further. 
For over against me rose a vast wall of black 
basalt, and upon it, in letters of white flame, 
were the words of my agony. And when I 
read TOO SOON, I turned me in my despair, 
and with bitterness of grief clomb again the 
perilous steep. 

When once more I had gained the summit, 
I had no heart to look where the glory of the 
sun fell about the Sower, sowing his living 
seed forever and ever. But when I looked 
again upon the Reaper — with mighty scythe 
laying low without end, without rest, where 
the grain rose and the grain fell — I cried 
aloud in my extremity of dread. 

Thereafter, it seemed to me that in the 
Hollow Land behind me was peace. So 
passed I down the hill, and through the twilit 
waste of all that ungarnered harvest. And 

124 



m 



The Last Quest 

there was no sound there, and nought stirred, 
save the slow, thin fall of the dust among the 
hollows forever upon the dark-red poppies of 
oblivion. 

And I know not how long I fared, or 
whither; but at last, weary — weary unto 
death of that harvest that should never be 
gathered — I came nigh unto the obscure 
forest I had seen from the hill-summit from 
afar. And I was glad, for I was weary of 
the Hollow Land. 

But when I would enter the wood, I saw 
that the growths were intricately drawn 
against yet another wall of black basalt. And 
as I stood, pondering, I beheld two mighty 
portals, and betwixt them a huge mass of 
marble like unto the tomb. And in great let- 
ters carven thereon were the words: TOO 
LATE. 



I2S 



The Fallen God 



Christian 
. . . nay, but doth not God owe that which 
He hath promised? 

Pagan 
He payeth in divers ways. 

Christian 
Is not His glory my glory, for lo He dwelleth 
in me and I in Him? 
Pagan 
Even so. Thus hath it ever been, O wor- 
shipper of thine own soul! 

The Idolater. 



THE FALLEN GOD 

[A vast hollow among barren hills, whereon 
no living thing moves or has being, and 
where no flower blooms, no grass or any 
green thing grows ever. Above the sheer 
slopes of the hills reaches the immense 
empty void of the sky, wherein there is 
no sun and no moon, wherein no stars 
mark a change that never comes, no 
clouds wander before the shepherd-wind 
that blows never. 

At the far rise of the hollow — so vast that 
echoes from the gorge issuing at the 
hither end wander idly into silence ere 
their whispers faint midway — is a gigan- 
tic fallen altar, ancient beyond the ken of 
ntan, and prostrate as it lay even in dim 
antiquity. Behind it stretches to the right 
and to the left, and reaches upward into 
the lifeless sky, a sheer smooth wall of 
basalt, polished as ice and black as the 
grave. And upon this ruined, ancient 
altar, as upon a throne, sits the Prophet: 
in his eyes a woe more terrible than the 
desolation of the sky overhead — a terror 
of loneliness more awful than that of the 
barren hills. 
All the valley — from the base of the gigantic 
fallen altar even unto the hithermost end, 
whereby all may come but none may go — 
is filled with an innumerable throng, so 
129 



William Sharp 

dense that no man might pass through 
these close ranks. In all the valley and 
upon all the hills nothing stirs, nothing 
moves. 
In the forefront of this silent concourse 
stand the dead kings; and behind them, 
rows upon rows, the high priests of the 
people. Even as though in one motion- 
less stare, all look upon the Prophet, the 
herald of their eternal joy. And in a low, 
hollow voice, that yet is heard of all, as 
though a rumour of earthquake and aw- 
ful thunder were echoing from the deso- 
late void, the Prophet speaks:] 

THE PROPHET 

What v^ould ye? 

[As a sigh that goes before the autumnal 
wind, the dead kings speak: and the woe 
in the face of the Prophet passes under- 
standing.] 

THE KINGS 

We are even as the dust upon the highway. 
O Prophet, where is our God? We would 
look upon him face to face. 

[Looking upon them, with eyes wherein the 
last hope flickers unto death, the Prophet 
answers :] 

THE PROPHET 

There is no God. 

[Terrible is the wail from the people, from 
one and from all throughout that dense 
throng; but silence comes upon them as 

130 



The Fallen God 

a wave, as the priests stretch forth their 
arms and supplicate:] 

THE PRIESTS 

Far have we fared, and bitter has been the 
way, O Prophet of God ! Lead us now to the 
God whom we worship, lest we perish ere he 
gather us to his fold. 

THE PROPHET 

What would ye, O blind leaders of the 
blind? 

THE PRIESTS 

Our God! Our God! 

THE PROPHET 

There is no God. 

[Terrible is the wail from the people, from 
one and all throughout the dense con- 
course; but, as the priests stand move- 
less, like dumb things stricken unto the 
death, the multitude cries as with one 
voice, with arms stretched forth even as 
one arm:] 

THE PEOPLE 

We have endured to the end! We are 
weary; we are weary: O God! 

THE PROPHET 

What would ye? 

THE PEOPLE 

Our God! Our God! 

THE PROPHET 

There is no God! 

131 



William Sharp 

[An awful whisper goes over the massed 
multitude :] 

THE PEOPLE 

Have we suffered, endured, agonized, pas- 
sioned, hoped against hope, and all in vain ? 

[And till the Prophet speaks, a yet more 
awful whisper passes like a shudder over 
the multitude:] 

THE PROPHET 

There is no God! 

[Then with one wild, despairing cry, all sup- 
plicate as one ntan:] 

THE PEOPLE 

Have we wrought in vain? 

THE PROPHET 

Yea, so. 

THE PEOPLE 

And there is no God? 

THE PROPHET 

There is no God. 

[As a howl of a wild beast is the voice of 
the multitude:] 

THE PEOPLE 

Liar, liar! O false Prophet, was it ever 
SO? Did we worship nought? 

[Then, with a long sigh, as if death had 
come indeed, the Prophet answers:] 

THE PROPHET 

Nay, your God was. 
132 



The Fallen God 

THE PEOPLE 

Where is he? Let us come unto him! 
Our God! Our God! 

THE PROPHET 

Behold, he is here. 

THE PEOPLE 

Where? Where? 

[And lo, prostrate at the feet of the dead 
Prophet, whose eyes become as stone, and 
whose body as the unhewn marble in the 
heart of the hills, is the fallen God. 

Then, as the last wave of a perishing sea, all 
the multitude moves onward. One by 
one each of that mighty company passes 
before the fallen altar and looks upon the 
dead God. And to each — kings and 
priests, elders and youths, women and 
maidens, the frail and little children — 
it seems as though his own self lies there, 
staring upward out of his own eyes. 

But, at the last, none is left of all these 
countless thousands. Each passes, and 
fades as a mist against the black wall 
beyond. 

And a great darkness comes down, though 
decrescent along the forefront is a dying 
orb, the faint, vanishing gleam whereof 
falls upon the stony wilderness, void as 
the void sky. No voice speaks ; no breath 
moves — save only at the base of the 
fallen altar a perishing eddy of wind that 
stirs a handful of dust.] 

133 



The Coming of The Prince 



Amour! O vie! O reve des reves. 



>» 



THE COMING OF THE PRINCE 

[A great forest, at midwinter, in the North 
of France. The snow hes heavy on the 
boughs of the oaks and beeches, and upon 
the pendulous branches of the larches and 
firs. The afternoon sky is of a pale tur- 
quoise blue, faintly dulled toward the 
north into a vaporous grey. 

In the depth of the wood, a charcoal-burner 
is stooping over a pile of fagots which he 
is binding. Suddenly he raises his head 
and listens intently. Far off, there is a 
faint strain of music. It mounts and 
wavers and passes away, as a feather 
blown from a bird in its flight sways this 
way and that and then drifts out of sight. 
The charcoal-burner resumes his labour; 
but, later, he once more suddenly raises 
his head and sniffs the chill woodland 
air.] 
THE CHARCOAL-BURNER 

It is Strange. Midwinter . . . and there is 
a smell as of violets . . . faint . . . like those 
white violets in summer in the garden of the 
cure ... or (still sniffing the air perplexedly) 
like those in the woods of Belamor. . . . 
Well, well, I know not. I have seen and 
heard many things. . . . Ay, and so the Sieur 
de Fontnoir is to have a great prince for his 
guest, they say. I would he might pass this 

137 



William Sharp 

way, for I am poor — ah, so poor, and it is 
bitter cold — and perhaps . . .. [again he 
listens intently, as a faint sound of music 
floats through the air and lingeringly dies'] 
. . . It is strange! 

[He gathers a few stray fagots, and then, 
heavily and wearily, follows a path that 
leads through the forest. A thin snow be- 
gins to fall : large fringed feathers swiri 
softly this way and that, dusking the up- 
per air, and drawing a veil of fugitive 
whiteness over the tangled undergrowth. 
Silently, as the visionary thoughts that 
drift through dreams, the snowflakes fall, 
till the upper boughs of the firs are as 
vast white plumes, and a dense carpet is 
so thickly woven over the glades that the 
hare does not leap from under the frozen 
bracken, and under the arched roots of 
the old oak the yellow eyes of the fox 
blink drowsily. 
At the northern march of the forest there 
is a great avenue that leads to the Chateau 
of Fontnoir; and at the far end of this, 
and close to the manor, Gaspard the 
Huntsman walks, stamping as he goes, 
so as to shake the snow from him. As 
he passes the many-gabled west wing of 
Fontnoir, he is hailed from' an open win- 
dow by Raoul, an old servitor.] 

RAOUL 
Gaspard! Gaspard! have you seen or 
heard aught of the Prince? 

138 



i.aa 



The Coming of the Prince^ 

GASPARD 

What Prince? 

RAOUL 

Why, the Prince whom both our Lord and 
the Lady Alaine have been expecting. I know 
no more. He may come unannounced and 
when unexpected, so says Father Fabien. 

GASPARD 

I have been in the forest all day. I met 
no one. 

RAOUL 

You saw no one! You heard nothing? 

GASPARD 

I saw no one except old Pierre the char- 
coal-burner. I heard nothing unusual — ex- 
cept — except — 

RAOUL 

Except what? 

GASPARD 

Within the last hour I heard twice a faint 
sound as of music. 

RAOUL 

Music? 

GASPARD 

Yes ; I think Sylvain, from St. Luc du Lys, 
must be wandering hither again. I hope so: 
that lute of his has magic in it, and he has a 
voice as sweet as the spring wind. 

139 



William Sharp 

RAOUL 

I care not for your lute-players and singers. 
You are as bad as Sylvain, Gaspard. ... Is 
it going to be a snowstorm? 

GASPARD 

No. This fall will soon cease. The night 
will be clear. 

[Raoul closes the window, and Gaspard 
passes on and disappears into the east 
wing. A great silence prevails. The 
snowflakes fall softly, but grow thinner 
and more thin, and at last only a few 
wandering feathers drift hither and 
thither. 
At an oriel window stand Marcel and 
Alaine. The room" beyond is in deep 
shadow. To the left, a door opens on a 
corridor: to the right another, leading to 
a stone staircase that descends abruptly. 
The first is closed; the second is ajar. 
The waning afternoon light falls upon 
Alaine's face as the dim glow of the 
crescent moon on water lilies. She is 
very beautiful, but pale as death. Mar- 
cel is clad as though for a journey. 
He, too, is pale; but in his dark eyes 
there is a fierce flame of life.] 

ALAINE 

If my father knew that you were here, 
Marcel — 

MARCEL 

Let him know. I care not. 

140 



The Coming of the Prince 

ALAINE 

He hates you and your house. 

MARCEL 

He is an old man, who has Hved with 
Shadows. 

ALAINE 

Father Fabien — 

MARCEL 

Alaine, what flowers have you there? It 
is midwinter — and yet I seem to smell the 
fragrance of violets. 

ALAINE 

There will be no violets for months yet. 
There are no flowers here. 

MARCEL 

Yes . . . violets; . . . those faint, white 
violets you love so well. 

[The last rays of the sun stream through 
the upper boughs of the forest, and all 
the whiteness is as autumnal moonlight 
The gleam illumes the face of Alaine, 
which is transformed to a beauty as of 
a summer sea. She laughs low, and in 
a sweet, hushed voice sings:] 

White dreams, 
White thoughts, 
White hopes! 
Shy violets. 
White violets, 

141 



William Sharp 

In woodland ways, by the brook-side, 
on the hill-slopes! 

Strange joy. 
New thrills. 
Vague fears: 
Violets, 
White violets, 

White kisses from the lips of Spring, 
white dewey tears. 

White hands, 

O lead me where 
The white Spring strays 

'Mid violets. 

White violets. 

On the hill-slopes, by the brook-side, 
in woodland ways, 
[A silence. The last glow of the sun passes. 

A yellow light illumines the wood.] 

MARCEL 

Why do you sing that song? 

ALAINE 

[Dreamily.'] Because they are the flowers, 
the best-beloved flowers of the Prince. . . . 

[^softly] 
In woodland ways, by the brook-side, on the 

hill-slopes! 

142 



■^'-' 'mi'\i'\\T' 



The Coming of the Prince^ 

MARCEL 

Alaine ! 

ALAINE 

Hush! Some one comes. If it should be 
my father — or — or — Father Fabien! 

MARCEL 

It cannot be your father: he is too ill to 
move. It is Raoul : I know his heavy step. 

[Raoul knocks and opens the door. He 
glances, startled for a moment, at Mar- 
cel; then bows. Then, looking towards 
Alaine:] 

RAOUL 
Did you wish me? 

ALAINE 

No. Why do you come? 

RAOUL 

I heard a sound as of that little silver chime 
of bells that Sylvain the minstrel brought you 
last Noel. It was in the corridor. 

ALAINE 

Impossible. You are dreaming, Raoul. 

RAOUL 

[To Marcel.] Monseigneur de St. Michel, 
you face the great doorway of Fontnoir. Did 
you see any one approach? Have you stood 
here long? 

MARCEL 

No one has approached since the sun 
dipped among the firs. 

143 



William Sharp 

RAOUL 

It is strange. A loud peal at the door hap- 
pened just as I was crossing the west gallery. 
I answered the summons at once; but, see 
you, my Lord Marcel, when I went to the 
door it was open, and no one was there. 

MARCEL 

Some one must have opened it. 

RAOUL 

No one could have done so unseen by me. 
It was not open before the summons. 

MARCEL 

Some one must have rung, and then 
abruptly gone elsewhere. 

RAOUL 

I looked out upon the court. There was 
not the faintest impress of a footstep upon the 
white sheet of the snow. 

MARCEL 

Well, it has been an illusion, Raoul. 

[He crosses to the old servitor, whispers 
some directions in his ear, and then, as 
Raoul leaves the room, closes the door 
behind him. The yellow light over the 
snow-clad woods grows more wan. Be- 
yond are broad spaces of amber, and 
then a vast receding' vault of dusky grey, 
wherein three pale stars gleam icily: on 
the snow in the foreground rests a fur- 
tive green light.] 

144 



The Coming of the Prince 

ALAINE 

[Dreamily.'] Ah, the sweet violets. 

MARCEL 

You, too, smell the violets? 

ALAINE 

[Still as in a dream,'] And, said Sylvain 
the poet, when the Prince had made a wreath 
of white violets, gathered in the sunshine, but 
each with the moonshine dew still cool within 
it, he crowned himself therewith, and — 

MARCEL 

Who is this Prince who is coming? Why 
is he likely to come alone and disguised? 

ALAINE 

I know not. 

MARCEL 

Alaine, oh, my darling! I love you! 
Alaine! Alaine! 

ALAINE 

Marcel ! 

[Marcel sinks on his knees by her side, and 
wildly kisses her hand.] 

MARCEL 

Have pity upon me, have pity, Alaine! 

ALAINE 

Rise, Marcel. 

MARCEL 

Alaine ! Alaine ! 

145 



William Sharp 

ALAINE 

Rise, heart of my heart, my darling, my 
darling ! 

MARCEL 

[Springing to his feet, and holding her at 
arm's length.] O my beautiful Alaine — My 
joy — my dream! Do you indeed love me 
even as I love you ? No — no — that cannot 
be, for I worship you! O my darling, my 
darling ! 

ALAINE 

I have loved you always, Marcel. But you 
know my father's vow — my father's hatred : 
he would kill you rather than — 

MARCEL 

And now — and now? 

ALAINE 

I love you, and you only. Marcel. Do 
with me as you will. I am a lost wave with- 
out you — a lost wave on a great sea, dark 
and shoreless. 

MARCEL 

Then farewell all this long, troubled dream ! 

ALAINE 

Farewell this dream that is dreamt — this 
weary dream! 

MARCEL 

And you will come. 

146 



The Coming of the Prince 

ALAINE 

I come. 

[He takes her in his arm's and kisses her 
passionately. Then, silent and sound- 
lessly, they pass hand in hand from the 
room by the eastward door, and descend 
the narrow stairway. 

And as they go, the room is full, as it were, 
with the odour of white violets. And ere 
they have reached the end of the wind- 
ing stairway, they stop a moment, in- 
tently listening to a faint, sweet music 
as of lutes, that seems to come from the 
room they have left.] 

ALAINE 

Ah, the sweet music ! 

MARCEL 

I have heard it in my dreams. 

ALAINE 

. . And I. 

MARCEL 

It was ever with thee, Alaine! 

ALAINE 

. . And thee! 

[They pass along the low stone corridor, 
and out behind the east wing, and into 
the court where Marcel's sleigh awaits 
thent. As they sweep across the snow 
and into the forest, the green light passes 
into yellow, and the yellow deepens into 
orange. And, a little later, sitting by 
the fire in his hut, the charcoal-burner 

147 



William Sharp 

lifts his head and smiles slowly; for he 
thinks he hears Sylvain the minstrel, on 
his way to the Chateau to make music 
for the Prince.] 



148 



The Passing of Lilith 



^^ ConnaiS'tu la Puissance tenebreuse qui 
trame nos destinees? . . . Des vies ante- 
rieures sont innombrablement presentes en 
moi; et je suis oppresse de mes pensees fu- 
tures: je sais VeternitL Ne suis-je Virrevo- 
cable?'' 



THE PASSING OF LILITH 

[The primal Eden, where the great rivers 
from the East and the West converge; 
where the winds bear abroad the rumour 
of the music of the young world, strange 
and passing sweet; where there is 
neither strife nor fear; where Lilith, the 
beautiful, soulless loveliness, reigneth 
supreme. 
And in the serene day come ever and again 
the fairest of the Sons of God and do 
homage to her; but only to Uluel doth 
she yield herself. And in the serene 
night Cometh the Spirit of this World, 
ofttimes in the guise of a beautiful 
Snake, and unto him Lilith is as flame 
to flante.] 
THE VOICE OF THE SPIRIT OF THIS WORLD 

From afar I sigh for thee, O Beauty of 
the World! 

LILITH 

[Slowly moving through the Garden of 
Eden, where the dusk falleth.] I v^ould be 
alone this night. 

THE VOICE 

[As the passing of the wind.] Thy thought 
is my thought, and thy will is my will. 

[Through the dim groves and shadowy ave- 
nues of Paradise Lilith goeth slowly, as 



William Sharp 

in a dream. She seeth not, she heedeth 
not the beautiful denizens of Eden: the 
white doe that moveth beside her awhile, 
like moonlight ; the yellow panther, whose 
eyes are as emerald flames in the dusk; 
the green-gold cobra, languidly undulat- 
ing from bough to bough; the filmy, oft- 
evanishing creatures of the middle air, 
strange and lovely shapes, opal-eyed, 
faintly rainbow-hued ; and wandering 
Spirits, passing fair, flowers of the un- 
born fruit of the Human Soul. 

And after awhile she passeth, still as in a 
dream, by the margins of the great, un- 
sailed waste of waters that stretcheth 
westward from Paradise, vaguely heark- 
ening, as she goeth, the prophetic mur- 
murs of the deep. 

But the sound of the waters persuadeth her 
to a subtle sorrow, and she wandereth 
inland till she cometh to the great cen- 
tral fountain which riseth from the womb 
of the earth. And looking into the heart 
of it, Lilith is strangely troubled.] 

LILITH 

\_Slowly, and still as in a dream,'] Lo, in 
the falling spray it seemeth that something 
shadowy like unto myself taketh form. Be- 
hold, now it towereth triumphantly. . . . 
Now it is a menacing suppliant, writhing with 
strange agonies. . . . Now it standeth pas- 
sive, in sinister silence ! And now it goeth — 



The Passing of Lilith 

It passeth — is no more. Yet, see, in the 
heart of the spray it cometh again! 

[Then, as though aweary of the vision, Lilith 
turneth away, and, going through the col- 
onnades of the forest, cometh to the 
great hill that is in the midst of Eden. 
And having gained the summit of the 
hill, she looketh long toward the North 
and toward the East, where the volcanic 
mountains are as a girdle of flame and 
falling ashes. 
And a strange trouble cometh upon her, and 
she averteth her gaze, and descendeth the 
great hill that is in the midst of Eden, 
and passeth again into the forest; though 
she goeth not by the fountain, but by the 
starlit ways where the night-flowers ex- 
hale exquisite odours that are as dreams.] 

THE VOICE OF THE SPIRIT OF THIS WORLD 

From afar I sigh for thee, O Beauty of the 
World! 

LILITH 

[Moving her lips.] I v^otild be alone this 
night. 

THE VOICE 

[As the passing of the wind,] Even as thy 

thought is my thought, so is thy v^ill my will. 

[As the coming of moonlight through the 

dusk is the voice — as from afar off — 

of Uluel, the fairest of the Sons of 

God. . . .] 



William Sharp 

THE VOICE OF ULUEL 

Thou art as white fire in my heart, O 
Beauty of the World! 

LILITH 

[Alow and at rest, upon a slope of white 
violets, lying as surf round the cavernous 
bases of vast trees.] For I am with thee as 
a Dream ! But come not, for I — 

[A wind ariseth, and passeth.] 
THE VOICE OF ULUEL 

But lo ! the time is at hand when — 

[A wind Cometh and goeth, and the voice is 
borne away. And there is utter silence 
in Eden. And Lilith sleepeth. 
Hour by hour the dark blue veil of night is 
withdrawn, and star after star is left pale 
and evanescent. And when none is left 
to front the rose-light of the new day, 
save the white fire of Phosphor, that is 
the lamp of morning; and when a raptur- 
ous glow hath bourgeoned like a flower 
over the Garden of Eden; and when a 
Breath of Joy gladdeneth the world; 
Lilith awaketh. Then having listened 
awhile to the song of life, and drunken 
of the dew that lies in the chalices of the 
white flowers, and eaten of the golden 
manna that awaiteth her where she will, 
she smileth, and with a wild, sweet song, 
passeth like a dream of sunlight through 
the glades of Eden. And ever as she 
goeth, sh'adowy and beautiful forms like 
unto the souls of men follow after her: 

154 



The Passing of Lilith 

and as she passeth beneath the trees, she 
ofttimes plucketh the fruit thereof, and, 
kissing it, giveth of the fruit now unto 
this one and now unto that.] 

LILITH 

[Standing still, and as though listening in- 
tently.] And if it so be — 

FAINT VOICES FROM THE BEAUTIFUL SHADOWY 

FORMS 

Give us of the fruit ! Give us of the fruit ! 

LILITH 

[Throwing away the last fruit she pluckt.] 
In the youth of the world I dreamt — 

FAINT VOICES 

Give US of the fruit ! Give us of the fruit ! 

LILITH 

[Sombrely.'] And the Vbice that I have 
heard thrice, and know not — 

FAINT VOICES 

Give US of the fruit ! Give us of the fruit ! 
Oh, give us of the fruit. 

LILITH 

[Looking upon one of the Shadow-souls.] 
What would'st thou ? 

THE SHADOW-SOUL 

The fruit! 

LILITH 

Thou art a dream that is undreamed. 



William Sharp 

THE SHADOW-SOUL 

The fruit — oh, give us of the fruit. 

[Slowly Lilith plucketh a fruit from off the 
tree, and, kissing it, giveth it to the 
suppliant] 

THE SHADOW-SOUL 

Ah, joy! joy! I am the Breath of Life! 
Immortal Life — Immortal Joy ! 

[As the Shadow- Soul eateth of the fruit, it 
becometh like a rosy phantom', with eyes 
as if filled with sunshine, and with a face 
like unto a sunlit sea.] 

THE SHADOW-SOUL 

[Moving apart from its fellows.'] Farewell ! 
Farewell! For I am: and ye are as dreams 
that are undreamed. 

[And as he goeth, the wild birds of Eden 
hover above him, and under his feet red 
and white flowers spring, and a low 
music followeth his steps.] 

LILITH 

[As in a dream.~\ Farewell! Farewell! 
For I am : and ye are as dreams that are un- 
dreamed. 

[But after the Shadow-Soul hath eaten of 
the fruit, the low music changeth into a 
mournful sighing, and the birds become 
like unto bats, and small, writhing snakes 
move where first were the red and white 
flowers. Then the rosy phantom fadeth 

156 



The Passing of Lilith 

into greyness, and is no more. And 
nought of the Shadow- Soul remaineth, 
save one drop of blood which is like unto 
a bleeding heart, but speedily sinketh 
into the ground. And Lilith knoweth 
that before she pass that way again it 
will be a plant, and thereafter a tree, 
whereon will grow the mystic fruit 
wherewith unto these her worshippers 
she giveth life and death.] 
LILITH 
[Slowly reiterating,] Farewell! Farewell! 

For I am: and ye are as dreams that are 

undreamed. 

[Slowly Lilith, passing from the trees of the 
fruit, with a wave of her hand dismisseth 
all those that follow her with the hunger 
that is more than bodily hunger, and the 
thirst that is more than bodily thirst. 
Like a dream of the sunlight, she goeth 
through the aisles of the forest. The 
glory of the morning falling upon her 
maketh her long hair as beaten gold — 
as pale gold that is aflame with an inner 
consuming lire. Her white body is as 
the ivory-white lily that groweth in soli- 
tary beauty in the heart of Eden: and 
the going of her is as the wave that 
moveth before the wind upon the deep: 
and the light that is in her eyes of 
fathomless blue is as that of the azure 
heaven an hour before the setting of the 
sun. 
And as she goeth, she seeth down the vast 

157 



William Sharp 

vista of Eden the beautiful Uluel, the 
fairest of the Sons of God. With him are 
three others, each lovely as daybreak. 
But Uluel is as the splendour of day. 
And as they come nearer, the three vanish 
into the golden glow, and Uluel is alone. 
Then as a moving river of light he 
draweth near unto Lilith, and she seeth 
that the glory of his loveliness passeth 
knowledge. Hand in hand, they go forth 
together; and the innermost flower of 
flowers rejoiceth, and each blade of 
grass bendeth as with a wind. And 
throughout Eden there is a sound as of 
the laughter of life. 

And while the moon prevaileth, Uluel, the 
fairest of the Sons of God, and Lilith lie 
among the lilies of the valley, where the 
spray of the fountain cools the air, and 
the shadows are deep from the great 
boughs of ancient trees. The joy that is 
their joy passeth knowledge, for Mortal- 
ity is swallowed up in Immortality, as the 
stars that perish lie in the heart of the 
firmament. And Uluel, the Son of God, 
trembleth because of the unspeakable sin, 
and anon trembleth with the greatness of 
unspeakable joy. And Lilith dreameth. 

When the day waneth in its glory, and the 
night, clothed with magnificence, is at 
hand, Uluel riseth.] 

ULUEL 

Lilith, Heart of Beauty, wilt thou come? 



158 



The Passing of Lilith 

LILITH 

I perish yonder. 

ULUEL 

Thou canst not die. Thou art immortal. 

LILITH 

I dreamed that I should die daily, and a 
thousand deaths. 

ULUEL 

Love scorneth fear. 

LILITH 

Fear warneth love. 

ULUEL 

Come! 

LILITH 

Show me the portals of thy golden house. 

ULUEL 

[Troubled.'] What wouldst thou? 

LILITH 

Thee! 

ULUEL 

I must go hence. Already — 

[A wind riseth, and passeth; and Lilith, ly- 
ing upon the lilies alone, dreameth hour 
after hour. Slowly the day goeth 
through the gold and purple gates of the 
West : and the eve, with a crown of stars, 
Cometh through the violet shadows. 
Through velvety glooms of darkness the 
night falleth, and the later splendour of 
the moon doth not dim the glory of the 
stars.] 



William Sharp 

THE VOICE OF THE SPIRIT OF THIS WORLD 

From afar I sigh for thee, O Beauty of the 
World! 

LILITH 

[With outstretched arms,] Come unto me, 
O Flame of Love ! 

[Out of the dusk cometh a great Snake, 
of a beauty beyond words, and girt with 
a splendour like unto the wavelets of the 
sea when the moonlight lies upon the 
deep. 

As he moveth, there is a sound as of a 
multitude of sweet lutes; as he breatheth, 
there is an echo of a myriad delicate 
strains. His voice is as the voice of the 
woods at sunrise, of the pastures when 
the day is done, of the West wind in 
valleys near the sea, of the rain after 
long drought. And Lilith giveth a low 
cry, and he passeth unto her. 

And far away beyond the abysmal disc of 
the sun, Uluel singeth before God: and 
knoweth not that he is blind, and that 
God seeth, and waiteth.] 

LILITH 

[Whispering to the beautiful Snake coiled 
about her, as the ivy is at one with the tree it 
claspeth,'] Yet if dreams — 

THE SPIRIT OF THIS WORLD 

Thou thyself art the Dream of the World. 
[The moonlight spreadeth as a flood, and 

1 60 



The Passing of Lilith 

the great beasts of Eden meet and re- 
joice with one another. 

And Lilith and the Spirit of the World are 
at one, as two rivers that flow into one 
sea. The mystery and the wonder and 
the secret ecstasy of night enter into 
them, and they know the unspeakable 
fear and the unspeakable joy. 

But toward the noon of night a strange, 
wild chant, surpassing sweet, draweth 
near. Then, with a low sigh, the Snake 
uncoileth from the body of Lilith and 
passeth into the darkness like unto the 
going of a moonlit river. Awhile doth 
Lilith list to the roaring of the wild 
beasts of Eden, and rejoice in their joy: 
but as the strange singing cometh nearer 
she riseth in her place, and waiteth as 
one who watcheth for her beloved. 

Erelong issueth out of the green gloom a 
white company of beautiful beings, love- 
lier than aught else in Eden. Yet none 
knoweth their song save Lilith, for of 
all that pass by she is the mother. 

And some are the offspring of her com- 
merce with Uluel, the fairest of the Sons 
of God: and some are born of her dal- 
liance with the beautiful Earth- Spirit, 
that is the Snake. 

One by one she calleth unto them: unto the 
children of Uluel — Hopes, Aspirations, 
Fair Beliefs, Virtues, Glories, Joys, and 
Raptures : and unto the children of the 
Earth-Spirit equally fair to look upon — 
Desires, Lusts, Agonies, Passions, Temp- 

i6i 



William Sharp 

tations. Sins, Shantes, Sorrows, and 
Despairs. 

But they, her offspring, will not abide; 
singing their mystic chant, one and all 
pass by. And when the white proces- 
sion is no more, Lilith sinketh again upon 
the ground, and, sleeping, dreameth a 
dream. And in her dream she seeth how 
all these offspring of her joys journey 
unto a strange goal: and how the chil- 
dren of the Snake, who are as males, 
terribly woo the children of the Son of 
God, who are as beautiful female spirits. 

But, in the midst of her dream, she awaketh 
trembling, for a Voice prevaileth through 
the Gates of Death and Sleep.] 

THE VOICE 

Arise, thou that are Lilith ! 

LILITH 

[Trembling.'] It is He! 

THE VOICE 

Arise, Lilith, Spirit of the Flesh, and go up 
upon the mountain. 

[Thereat Lilith, rising from her place, 
passeth through the wood to the great 
hill that is in the midst of Eden. And in 
her heart there is the weight of the old- 
world dreams. As she climbeth the 
great hill by the light of the flaming 
volcanoes, her face is pale as the light 
on a moonless sea. And when she look- 

162 



1 



liamm 



The Passing of Lilith 

eth forth from the summit upon the 
girdle of mountains, belching forever 
their spume of red flames and clouds 
of molten ashes, her heart faileth her for 
terror. For all the heavens — from the 
verge of the world to the farthest of the 
stars — are alive with thin spectral 
flames: the vital essences, as Lilith 
knoweth, of those innumerable worship- 
pers of hers who through past ages have 
eaten of her mystic fruit. Moreover, 
each supplicateth wildly to the unknown 
God ] 

Give us life, that we triumph over this 
beautiful Evil, which hath no soul, but who 
is yet immortal ! 

[And, much troubled, Lilith descendeth the 
great hill that is in the midst of Eden. 
And at the fountain which welleth from 
the womb of the earth, and at the phan- 
tasm of herself in the spray thereof, she 
looketh long and broodingly. There- 
after, with lips muttering, but without 
words, and with downcast eyes, she 
passeth onward toward the margin of 
the great sea that covereth all the world 
to the West. 
There until the dawn lieth she, silent, mo- 
tionless, as one dead. And at the out- 
burst of the glory of the rising sun, there 
cometh a terrible voice out of the hol- 
low heaven:] 

163 



William Sharp 

THE VOICE 

Behold, man shall be born upon the earth. 
He shall inherit it. Unto the children of 
man is delivered thine inheritance. Hence 
pass thou, Lilith, even unto the great sea — 
thou and thine. 

LILITH 

[Slowly risi^ig.'] Even so. For my time 
is come upon me. 

[Then knowing that her time is come upon 
her, and that all things must be fulfilled, 
she goeth forward, silent, and trembling 
not, but with downcast eyes, and lieth by 
the uttermost margin of the great sea. 
All day long she abideth there; nor 
weepeth, nor maketh any wail of sor- 
row; but lieth ever with her breast 
against the sand, and with fixed eyes star- 
ing upon the sea. 

And none cometh nigh her: neither Uluel, 
the fairest of the Sons of God; nor the 
fair Snake, which is the Spirit of this 
World; nor any of her beautiful off- 
spring; nor any of her shadow-worship- 
pers, that are as the grains of sand in 
numbers; nor any fond beast or shelter- 
ing bird. 

And at the noon of day, Lilith crieth aloud 
once.] 

Uluel ! 

[And at the waning of the day, Lilith cries 
aloud yet again:] 

164 



I 



The Passing of Lilith 

Uluel ! 

[Slowly the fan-flame of the sun waneth 
above the great sea, and there is deep 
peace in Eden. 
But ere the passing of the sun, and when 
all the ocean is red as with blood, the 
company of the offspring of Lilith by the 
Son of God and by the Spirit of the 
Earth come unto her out of Eden : Hopes 
and Despairs, Virtues and Sins, Glories 
and Shames, Raptures and Agonies, , one 
and all come they unto her, their 
mother.] 

THE CHILDREN OF LILITH 

[Slowly chanting.} We are immortal, and 
we cannot die ! 

[There is no following sound, no answer, 
but the moaning of the sea.] 

THE CHILDREN OF LILITH 

[With alien voices, passing away,] We are 
immortal, and we cannot die! 

[But Lilith, who hath stirred not for all 
their advent, only smileth constrainedly, 
and turneth not her staring eyes from off 
the deep. And the faint voices of the 
children of Lilith are lost in the moan- 
ing voice of the waters.] 

LILITH 

Beautiful Spirit, I am thine. 

[But only the night cometh. And the sea 
moveth as though quickened into life, 

165 



William Sharp 

and advanceth upon the land. When the 
moon riseth, there is nought upon the 
shore save a little frothing foam. In the 
silence of the night strange cries vibrate, 
and shadows innumerable pass to and fro, 
in the valleys of Eden. 
And at sunrise God breatheth upon the 
dust, and Adam is.] 

(1886 and i8p3.) 



166 



The Lute Player 



Les fibres de son coeur font les cordes d'un 

luth 
Qui rhythme les accords des splendeurs 

eternelles. . . . 

ISRAFEL. 



THE LUTE PLAYER 

[In a long, high-vaulted room, looking out 
upon a Roman garden where the cypresses 
rise in narrowing shafts from thickets of 
oleander and myrtle, is seated a cont- 
pany of men and women, feasting. 
Touched with the coolness of the eve that 
has scarce come . , . though the last 
floating cloudlets of crimson and pink, 
like petals fallen from a late-gathered 
rose, still linger beyond the garden- 
fringe of ilex and pine . . . the soft, 
warm air of early summer steals into the 
room, laden with subtle odours, and re- 
verberant as a hollow shell with vague 
sounds — the hum of the bees in the 
mignonette, of the gnats upon the wing, 
of the dragon-flies as they dart to and 
fro above the sunken fish-ponds.] 

At the head of the table, facing the open 
window, sits a Cardinal ; beyond him on either 
side are men and women, for the most part 
young. The dancing-girls have just gone, 
and a sudden hush has come out of the twi- 
light upon all assembled. A few look before 
them pensively, or idle with the rose leaves 
in the water in the crystal globes beside them ; 
but most look towards the garden, where the 

169 



William Sharp 

shadows are fantastically long or merged in 
a violet gloom. 

The light in the west has become gold and 
purple, with a wide stretch of pale, translu- 
cent green, against which the cypresses stand 
black and moveless: over all the sky is one 
vast wave of daffodil. Out of the heart of a 
myrtle-thicket comes the song of a nightin- 
gale, so thrilling with exultant passion that no 
one dares speak or move lest the charm be no 
more. 

When, abruptly, the song ceases, there is 
still silence throughout the room. But sud- 
denly a low, penetrating strain of music floats 
in upon the evening air, so poignant and yet 
so delicate, so rare and yet with touches of 
such sweet familiarity, that tears come into 
the eyes of many. Yet none knoweth who 
the musician is: and if some think that the 
subtle playing comes from the garden, others 
believe that the Cardinal has secreted a lute- 
player somewhere in the room, or behind the 
tapestries or waving curtains. And to some 
comes a sudden sense of peace, to others a 
quick joy. But one youth, turning to the 
fair woman beside him, is startled to see that 
her eyes look toward him as through a veil, 
and that her beauty shines upon him afar off, 
as in a pool the fugitive light briefly lingers 

170 



The Lute Player 

while the moon rests on the mountain 
shoulder. With a strange dread at his heart 
he is about to lean forward, when he shrinks 
in terror, for between him and her yawns a 
black and bottomless gulf. 

As a ripple of laughter and the sound of the 
wind among the grasses, goes the eager ap- 
plause of those sitting at the feast; and, low 
and clear above all, the voice of the Cardinal, 
bidding the musician enter and be one of his 
company. But the youth shudders, for now 
he hears, as it were, the echo of the music 
floating up from the hollow blackness of the 
gulf. Then, with a fear such as he has never 
known before, he rises, and reaches forward 
to gather to his arms the woman whom he 
loves ; but, even while he still hears the blithe 
voices of the guests, he knows that he is sink- 
ing like a falling feather into the gulf. From 
far beneath he hears the strange music of 
the Lute-player: far above, the faint echo of 
it among the revellers, of whom he was one 
but a moment ago. As a swimmer sinks 
down into a fathomless sea, so sinks he: and 
in the waning gleam overhead, as of vanish- 
ing moonlight, he sees the pale, mourning face 
of her whom he loves. 
With a light laugh, the Cardinal calls: — 
" Ah ! there goes the Lute-player : I saw his 

171 



I 



William Sharp 

shadow fall upon the floor near the window." 
And a guest cries : — 
" And the nightingale has heard him too ! " 

Whereat there is again a profound stillness ; 
for all sit entranced by the song of the unseen 
bird, which is now sad beyond words, and as 
though the little heart were breaking. The 
silence following is full of the afterthought of 
sweet music, as a calm sea is full of the moon- 
light long after a cloud-film veils the hollow 
sky. But suddenly, from the dusky avenues 
at the far end of the garden, the vanishing 
lilt of a lute falls upon the ears of all. So 
sweet and blithe its music, that each smiles 
as with sudden gladness and relief: none 
knowing what silence has suddenly come unto 
one of them, what horror of deep darkness, 
what engulfing despair. 

[And the Lute-player, passing unseen down 
the dark ways, fares toward the city: 
where the noise of falling waters is 
sweet to tired ears, and the hot air cooled 
with blown spray.] 

As he silently goes on his way, none knows 
of his presence. But as he passes by a house 
in an obscure street, he hears a long, wailing 
cry: whereat he stands stilly and listens in- 
tently ere, unseen, he enters and goes towards 
a room where, by the bed of a child, a mother 

172 



The Lute Player 

kneels, sobbing and crying to God. In the 
shadow, unseen and unheard, he looks long at 
the woman and at the child. Then, slowly 
and softly, he begins to play ; and the room is 
full of the delicate music of his lute, and upon 
the face of the child is an exceeding joy. 
And the child, with thin arms suddenly out- 
stretched, cries eagerly: 

'' Mother ! mother ! I see a beautiful stream, 
all gold in the sunshine; and beyond it is a 
meadow full of flowers; and everywhere, 
everywhere, oh, the sweet songs! Oh, 
mother ! mother ! the music, the sweet music ! '' 

And the mother pitifully cries out : — 

^' Yes, yes, my little one : it is but a lute- 
player in the street." 

But as she would reach to her child, she 
hearkens as it were to the lute-music, floating 
far away above a mad rush and surge of 
waters: and among the screams of drowning 
wretches she hears a cry that goes to her 
heart, and at the same moment sees her child 
whirled on high and hurled through the swirl- 
ing foam into the darkness beyond. Then, 
with a wild cry, she falls forward un- 
conscious. 

[In the stillness and in the shadow, the 
Lute-player goes forth into the street. 
And passing hence into a lonely and evil 
quarter, he plays upon his lute, but so 



William Sharp 

softly that none hears him. It is as 
though the blossoms on the fruit-trees 
were whispering to the leaves, as though 
the moonbeams were dancing with the 
ripples on a stream, as though the wan- 
dering white rays of the stars were 
tangled in the long grasses and made a 
sweet, bewildering music. 
Thereafter, passing by foul places and dens 
of loathsome evil, the low, haunting 
strain wanders, wanders, drifting this 
way and that, as though innumerable 
winged spirits were floating earthward 
with the falling dew, singing their thin 
aerial song, surpassing sweet. Some 
hear it for a moment, fleetingly faint, be- 
hind a curtain, or in a dark passage, or 
« betwixt the sudden opening and closing 
of a door. Sometimes it is a vanishing 
echo, sweet and joyous as of the dawn- 
wind stirring among the upper branches 
of the forest, as the rippling wash of the 
sea when the sunglow streams upon it: 
sometimes it is vague and far as the 
fall of snow upon the woodlands when 
there is no wind, as the whisper of the 
last breath of air swooning upon the 
pastures, as the faint falling music of 
the wild hyacinths and lilies of the valley 
in the hollow beyond the blown spray 
of the waterfall.] 

And passing down a narrow street, the 
Lute-player comes upon a man going cau- 

174 



The Lute Player 

tiously in the shadow : who, fearful of follow- 
ing steps, turns, muttering hoarsely: 

"Who art thou?" 

But hearing from the Lute-player that he 
is only a wandering musician faring way- 
wardly through the city, the man cries 
blithely :— 

" What do you sing ? For I know where 
a good song will be welcome ! " 

Whereupon the Lute-player answers sim- 
ply: 

" I sing of Life ... and Death/' 

With a challenging voice the man says: — 

" Come, a song for a song ! " 

And he begins a carol of life and the many 
joys thereof, and mocking at death: — 

O Day come unto me, 
Fair and so sweet! 
Crown'd shalt thou be, 
And with wingd feet, 
Escape the invading sea, 
Whose bitter line 

Follows o'er fleet. 
What joy thou would'st is thine: 
Life is divine, 

O Fair and Sweet! 

Death is a paltry thought: 
A little troublous thing — 

175 



William Sharp 

An insect's sting! 
Beautiful Day, oh, heed it not! 
Death is a vain, a — 

But he ceases abruptly as the Lute-player 
suddenly touches his lute : and so passing rare 
is the music that the man stands entranced. 
Nor does he speak any word or make any 
gesture, as he hears it lessening and vanishing. 
[In the deep shadow of the street the Lute- 
player is seen no more, and the thrilling, 
evanishing strain passes away at last, 
sweet as faint inland echoes heard long- 
ingly through the dusk at sea.] 

With a low sigh the man turns, but sud- 
denly reels with horror to see that he is in a 
city of flame, and that the street before him 
is a broad and fathomless river of blood. As, 
with a terrible cry, he falls therein, he does 
not see the figure of his enemy behind him, 
nor feel the long knife of the assassin that 
transfixes his heart. 

[And the Lute-player, traversing the city, 
crosses one of the bridges that span the 
immemorial river whereon it is set. 
Halting midway, he looks broodingly 
upon the slow-moving flood whose gurg- 
ling current washes the piers beneath him. 
Once, smiling darkly, he raises his hand, 
about to play a music so wild and strange 
that the whole city should hearken: but, 

176 



The Lute Player 

with a sigh, he forbears. As he moves, 
he descries in the opposite embrasure a 
woman, young and fair but for the hag- 
gard weariness of her face, stooping, and 
staring steadily at the water in its dull, 
monotonous flow. Softly he touches his 
lute to a delicate, distant melody: ex- 
quisite vibrations as though of long for- 
gotten strains, of loved sounds and 
voices.] 

Once, with a strange, reluctant fear, the girl 
turns ; but seeing him not in the shadow, and 
thinking herself alone with the murmuring 
water, looks no more. So subtly soft and 
sweet is the music stealing upon her ears, that 
it is as though it came from afar. Hearing it, 
she smells again the wild roses and the honey- 
suckle in the hedges ; listens to the bees lazily 
fumbling among the red and white clover in 
the hot pastures, to the faint wind astir 
among the flowering beans, to the lowing of 
distant cows, to the haunting call of the 
cuckoo above the woodlands where a sleepy 
murmur comes from the cushats' nests. But, 
listening entranced, the haunting strains come 
to her at last not from afar, but from below, 
deep from the heart of the flood flowing on- 
ward for ever and ever. Suddenly a great 
trembling comes upon her: and in a low 
voice she cries: — 

177 



William Sharp 

"Who IS there ?'^ 

As from among the grasses she hears the 
sound of small feet running, and of a soft, 
low laughter. Springing downward with a 
cry, she hearkens to the strange music, ringing 
in her ears wildly sweet: but as the dark 
waters overwhelm her, she knows nought 
save a horrible choking as of a suffocating 
child, the fierce execrations and blows of a 
man, and a fearful, fathomless gulf into which 
she is sinking as a stone into the abyss. 

[For long, and as though wearily, the Lute- 
player leans upon the bridge. The wash 
of the water and the sough of the night- 
wind alone break the stillness; yet it is 
to him as though with their undertone are 
wrought remoter harmonies of earth and 
sky, wherein also the moonlight and the 
far icy stars and the wandering clouds 
have utterance. 
When, at the last, veiled in shadow, he 
passes on, the dawn breaks. Erelong the 
opal of the east is haloed by great fan- 
like streamers of gold and crimson : and 
those looking upon the morning star see 
beneath it the unfolding of the splendour 
of the Flower of Day. The boatmen on 
the long barges and moored sloops upon 
the river hear for a moment the echo 
of a sweet, a blithe sweet song: and the 
peasants trooping through the fields lis- 
ten intently to catch again the happy lilt 
of delicate strains heard afar: and upon 

178 



The Lute Player 

the hills the shepherds look upward, with 
hands shading their eyes, half startled by 
faint vanishing cadences of joyous music. 
The birds sing, and the flowers bloom, and 
the winds unfold their wings and fare 
forth in the sunshine. Everywhere, 
everywhere, the joy and glory of life. 
And the Lute-player, clothed with a ra- 
diance of sunlight and with eyes of morn- 
ing, moves onward through the glad 
noon, playing ever his wild, sweet song: 
for unto him' is no night and no day, 
and unto him no morrow comes for 
whom all morrows are but strains re- 
membered from an antique song.] 



179 



r 



The Whisperer 



THE WHISPERER 

I 

[A summer noon, in a crowded thoroughfare 
of London. The sunlight slants through 
a thin veil of blue, and becomes a pale 
gold on the street, where the endless 
surge of the traffic is as the waters of 
the sea caught in a narrow strait. 
Among the hundreds who hurry this way 
and that goes a man who looks beyond 
him as though he descried somewhat 
afar off for which he yearned. Some- 
times he stops abruptly, and with startled 
eyes stares at the man or woman at that 
moment by his side: sometimes he 
speaks, though none answers him.] 

THE MAN 
[Stopping abruptly, in his rapid walk east- 
ward, while the light wanes from his 
eyes.] 
Who spoke? 

THE WHISPERER 
It is I. 

THE MAN 

Who art thou? 

[Silence.] 

THE MAN 

[Turning first to one person moving past 
him, then to another.^ What is it? 

183 



William Sharp 

[Each stares for a moment, but none an- 
swers. All whom he addresses hurry on 
without regarding him: a few glance at 
him and mutter irritably or scornfully. 
Slowly he resumes his way. Again the 
voice is in his ear.] 

THE MAN 

Who spoke? 

THE WHISPERER 
It is I. 

THE MAN 

Who art thou? 

THE WHISPERER 

I am of Those who watch. 

THE MAN 

For whom? 



THE MAN 



For what? 



[Silence.] 
[Silence.] 



THE MAN 

Art thou here? 

THE WHISPERER 

I am here. 

THE MAN 

I see thee not : where art thou ? 

THE WHISPERER 

I am in the rhythm of the whirling wheels 
and the falling hoofs, in the noise of innu- 
merous feet, and the murmur of myriad 

184 



The Whisperer 

breaths. The sparrows flicker in the light of 
my footfall, and the high sunlight is in my 
eyes. 

THE MAN 

What would'st thou? 

THE WHISPERER 

I have no will, O falling wave. It is I 
who say: what wouldst thou? 

THE MAN 

Where am I? 

THE WHISPERER 

In a vast maelstrom in a vaster sea. 

THE MAN 

Am I then a lost wave? 

THE WHISPERER 

A rising and a falling wave. 

THE MAN 

{^Reiterating below his breath,'] A rising 
and a falling wave ! 

THE WHISPERER 

A falling and a rising wave. 

THE MAN 

Art thou a spirit? 

[Silence.] 

THE MAN 

What art thou? 

[Silence.] 
THE MAN 

[Turning desperately to an old man at his 
side.] It is thou! Speak, speak! 

185 



William Sharp 

[The old man looks at him fearfully, shakes 
off his grasp, and hurries onward.] 

THE WHISPERER 

I am here. 

THE MAN 

If I am of those for whom you watch tell 
me to what end ? 

THE WHISPERER 

That, if thou wilt, when thou art ready, 
thou may'st hear and see. 

THE MAN 

Thus be it. I would hear, and see. 

[Even as he speaks, the Man sees the crowd 
in the street become trebled: and in his 
ears is a noise of crying and lamentation, 
with vague remote shouts of victory and 
defiance. Like unto the innumerable 
falling of the waves upon the sea is the 
dim, confused rumour of the strife of 
human passions, embodied in shadowy 
shapes, with wild eyes of hope, dread, 
wrath, horror, and dismay. Beside each 
man or woman moves two others, the 
phantom of the soul and the phantom" of 
the body. And ever the phantom of the 
soul, with its eyes of morning glory, 
looks through the veil of flesh into its 
fellow, now dulled or sleeping, now 
weary or heedless, now listening intently, 
now alive and eager. And ever the phan- 
tom of the body moves a little in ad- 
vance of its fellow, and weaves a glamour 

i86 



The Whisperer 

before the eyes, and sings a wildering 
song into the ears, and laughs low be- 
cause the flames of Are that are its feet 
seem like roses, and the dust and ashes 
upon its head are as fragrant lilies, and 
the dropping decays wherewith it is clad 
wave like green branches that lure to the 
woodland.] 

THE MAN 

[Shuddering.] Everywhere the Evil One 
has his triumph. 

THE WHISPERER 

There is no Evil One. 

THE MAN 

But he — the phantom of the body, who 
weaves his charm of the grave and his rune 
of corruption — 

THE WHISPERER 

Look! 

[And the Man, looking, sees only one figure 
moving beside each human being of all 
the hurrying myriad.] 

THE MAN 

Who — who is it? 

THE WHISPERER 

It is the phantom of the man or of the 
woman. 

THE MAN 

Are they, then, one: the phantom of the 
soul and the phantom of the body? 

187 



William Sharp 

THE WHISPERER 

They are one. 

THE MAN 

[Terrified,] And thou? 



[Silence.] 



II 

[Under a chestnut tree, on a grassy place, 
near a cottage, in the remote country. 
There is no moon, but its radiance comes 
diffused through soft, filmy clouds. In 
the darkness, the Man stands, listening 
intently.] 

THE MAN 

I am not alone? 

[Silence.] 

THE MAN 

I know thou art nigh. It is on the wind, 
on the leaves, in the grass. 

THE WHISPERER 

I am here. 

THE MAN 

The time is come. Tell m.e that which thou 
art — show me that which thou art. 

THE WHISPERER 

Look! 

[And the Man, looking, beholds for the first 
time the flowing of the wind. As he 
looks, the heavens open, and the flowing 
of the wind is from the starry depths, 
and is filled with a myriad myriad aerial 

1 88 



J 



The Whisperer 

beings, — souls coming and going, fair 
spirits, shadows and shapes innumerable, 
strange and sometimes terrible.] 

THE MAN 

[Awestruck.'] What are thou? 

THE WHISPERER 

I am the rhythm of the sap in the grass and 
the trees, of the blood in all living things, of 
the running of waters, of the falling of dews 
and rains, of the equipoise of oceans, of the 
four winds of the world, of the vast swing 
of the Earth. 

THE MAN 

Thou art the God of this world ! Thou art 
God! Lo, I worship thee! 

THE WHISPERER 

Behold! 

[And the Man, looking, beholds through the 
mist of stars a whirling grain of sand, 
falling forever through the waste eternity 
of Oblivion.] 

THE WHISPERER 

That whirling grain of dust is the World of 
which thou hast spoken. 

THE MAN 

Thou art no other than God, the God whom 
all races have worshipped since Time was ! 

THE WHISPERER 

Behold! 

[And the Man, looking, beholds amid the 

189 



William Sharp 

depths of the stars a vast Shape, seated 
on a golden sun among the Pleiades, who 
swings forever, as a lamp of incense, the 
Seven Stars, and with them all the stars 
and planets and suns and moons of the 
universe: and as he swings this Lamp of 
Incense, he sings a song of praise and 
worship to the Most High] 

THE WHISPERER 

Behold, thou hast seen thy God, and the 

God whom all the races of the world have 

worshipped since time was. And now, turn 

thine eyes upon the glory of Him yet again. 

[And the Man, looking, beholds another 

grain of sand whirling forever through 

the waste infinities of Oblivion.] 

THE WHISPERER 

That whirling grain of sand is the vast uni- 
verse of the sun and moon and stars that thou 
knowest, and all the suns and planets and 
stars eye hath seen or the brain conceived. 

THE MAN 

{^Scarce whispering.'] And God? 

THE WHISPERER 

Thou canst not see the invisible speck that 
was His throne. Behold the grain of sand 
that was His universe. 

THE MAN 

Who art thou ? 

[Silence.] 

190 



M 



The Whisperer 

THE MAN 

[/n his soul.'] Is there nought beyond? 

THE WHISPERER 

Verily: the nearer foam of the Sea of Life. 

THE MAN 

Doth God live? 

THE WHISPERER 

Beyond the extreme horizon of the Sea of 
Life, Gods and Powers and Dominions bow 
down before the Most High. 

THE MAN 

And then? 

THE WHISPERER 

The Sea of Life begins. 

THE MAN 

{^Despairingly.] Beyond all thoughts to 
find Him — all prayer to reach Him! 

THE WHISPERER 

Nay, He is here. 

[The Man, bewildered, stares around him 
as the moon sails from out the last films 
of mist. In his hand is a blade of grass, 
that he had not plucked.] 
THE MAN 

[Vaguely repeating.] Nay, He is here! 

THE WHISPERER 

I am thine to serve, O spirit that dieth not. 

THE MAN 

Who art thou? 

[Silence.] 

191 



William Sharp 

And I remain thus, dreaming, listening to 
that interminable dialogue between the heart 
that desires and the reason that reprehends, 
going from hypothesis to hypothesis, like a 
blind bird casting itself incessantly against 
the four walls of its cage, 

L'Irremediable. 



199 



i 



PART II 

Madge o' the Pool 
The Gypsy Christ 
The Lady in Hosea 



^ 



1 



IB 



Madge o' the Pool 



MADGE O' THE POOL 
A THAMES ETCHING 



When the Januarj^ fog hangs heavy upon 
London it comes down upon the Pool as 
though it were sluiced there like a drain, or 
as a mass of garbage shot over a declivity 
in a waste place. The Pool is not a lovely 
spot in winter, though it has a beauty of its 
own on the rare days when the sun shines in 
an unclouded frosty sky, or when a north- 
wester comes down from the distant heights 
of Highgate and Hampstead, and slaps the 
incoming tide with short splashes of waves 
washed up by the downward current, till the 
whole reach of the Thames thereabouts is a 
jumble of blue and white and of gleaming if 
dirty greys and greens. On midwinter 
nights, too, when the moon has swung up out 
of the smoke, like a huge fire-balloon adrift 
from the Lambeth furnaces, and when the 
stars glint like javelin points, there is some- 
thing worth seeing down there, where the 
forest of masts rises sheer and black, and 
where there is a constant cross-flash of red 

197 



William Sharp 

and green rays from innumerable bow lamps 
and stern windows and tipsy lanterns trailed 
awry through the rigging. A mile up- 
stream, and it is wonderful what stillness pre- 
vails. For ever, of course, the dull roar of 
omnibuses and cabs on the bridges, the 
muffled scraping sound of hundreds of 
persons moving rapidljt afoot: from the 
banks, the tumult of indiscriminate voices 
and sounds of all kinds round and beyond 
the crank-crank of the cranes on the grain- 
wharves and the bashing of the brick and coal 
barges against the wooden piers. But upon 
the interspaces of the river, what compara- 
tive silence! A disjointed passenger-boat, 
with spelican funnel darting back to the 
perpendicular, shoots from under a bridge, 
and paddles swiftly down-stream like a 
frightened duck; a few moments, and it is 
out of sight, swallowed in the haze, or swung 
round a bend. A trio of barges, chained to 
each other like galley-slaves, passes up- 
stream, drawn by what looks like a huge blue- 
bottle-fly. The bluebottle is a tug-boat, a 
" barge-bug '' in river parlance ; and as it 
flaps the water with a swift spanking smash 
of its screw, the current is churned into a 
yeast of foam that is like snow against the 
bows of the first barge, and thin as dirty 

198 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

steam when washed from the sternmost into 
a narrow vanishing wake. As likely as not, 
the bargees are silent, pipely contemplative, 
taciturn in view of always imminent need for 
palaver of a kind almost unique in the scope 
and vigour of its blasphemy. Perhaps, how- 
ever, the boy at the caboose forward whistles 
the tune of " O were I sodger gay,'' or that 
perennial favourite which recounts the deeds 
of Jack Do and Bob Didn't in the too familiar 
groves of Pentonville; or the seedy man in 
shirt-sleeves, who walks the starboard plank 
with a pole and thinks he is busy, may yell 
a ragged joke to a comrade similarly em- 
ployed on one of the other barges. Or 
even, and indeed very probably, the heavily 
cravated, dogskin-capped helmsman may sud- 
denly be moved to a hoarse volley of words 
so saturated, dominated, upheld, overborne 
by the epithet ''bloody," that the ''coal- 
bunker " might almost be taken for a slaugh- 
ter-house escaping in disguise. But even the 
barges slump up-stream out of sight before 
long: and then, how quiet the river is for a 
space! The wharf-rats are so fat that they 
make a stone-like splash when they plunge 
through the grain-dollops; but only a prac- 
tised ear could recognise the sound in the 
rude wash of the current, or " spot " the 

199 



William Sharp 

shrill squeaks, as of a drowning and despair- 
ing penny-whistle, when a batch of these 
" Thames-chickens " scurries in sudden flight 
down a granary-slide and goes flop into the 
quagmires of mud left uncovered by the ebb. 
But at the Pool there is never complete si- 
lence. Even if there be no wind, the curses 
of the Poolites (in at least twenty varieties 
of human lingo) would cause enough current 
of air to crease the river's dirty skin here 
and there into a grim smile. 

Like the rest of the world, the Pool has its 
sociable seasons. Broadly there are two. 
The shorter might be called that of the con- 
certina and open-air " flings " ; the longer that 
of the riverside singing-dens and dancing- 
saloons. But the regular population has not 
much time for systematic gaiety, not even in 
the long summer nights: a bad season, in 
fact, when there is little business to be done 
and too much light to do it in. The stranger 
visiting the neighbourhood — that is to say, 
the stranger who carries in his aspect too 
obvious credentials as to his respectability — 
might laugh at the idea of there being a Pool 
population at all, that is, of a permanent kind. 
He will find the saloons in the locality 
haunted by a motley gathering, where as a 
rule the ladies show no insular partiality in 

200 



J 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

their acceptance of partners, whether in the 
dancing-shops or other dens of more or less 
repute; and where, without having had the 
advantages of an excellent training at a 
young ladies' academy, they seem quite at 
ease with gentlemen of foreign parts, coloured 
or otherwise, who talk no lingo but their 
own. It is, in fact, a cosmopolitan society. 
The civilisation of the West and the wisdom 
of the East meet constantly ^n the inter- 
course of the Irish dock-labourer and the 
Chinese " grubber '' ; and the coolie or Malay 
is as much at home as the Dutchman or 
Portugee. 

There is a clan of which almost nothing is 
known. It is the people of the Pool. Ask 
the river-police, and they will tell you some- 
thing of the '' water-rats," though if your 
informant be candid he will add that he can't 
tell you much. Many unfortunate travellers 
have met members of the fraternity; for one 
of their favourite and most reputable pur- 
suits is the ferrying at exorbitant prices (the 
inevitable purloining skilfully carried on at a 
certain stage is not charged for) of would-be 
voyagers by the Hamburg and Baltic steam- 
ers, when, on account of the tide, embarka- 
tion has to take place at midstream. The 
Poolites haunt Irongate and Horsleydown 

201 



William Sharp 

stairs, and are given to resenting active in- 
terest in their vested rights. But their chief 
means of life is otherwise obtained. They 
are the vermin of the Thames, and they scour 
its surface by night with irreproachable in- 
dustry and thoroughness. It would not be 
easy to describe what they do, particularly 
under cover of mist or fog; it is simplest to 
say that they will do anything, except speak to 
a '' cat " or refuse a drink. A " cat," it may 
be observed, is the name applied to a mem- 
ber of the river police ; and as the " cats " 
are always worrying, even when not directly 
chasing the Poolites, or " rats," the result is 
incompatability of temper. 

Many of the Poolites haunt holes and cor- 
ners in the neighbourhood of Horsleydown 
stairs. Some have their lair in old boats, or 
among rotten sheds or wood-piles; others 
are as homeless, and as unpleasant and as 
fierce, as dung-beetles. Among them there 
are *' rats " of either sex who are practically 
never ashore, whose knowledge of London is 
confined to familiarity with the grim river 
frontages, and whose sole concern in con- 
nection with " the great name of England " 
is a chronic uneasiness about her might and 
majesty in the guise of the police. 

A score or so of Poolites are marked men. 

202 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

That is to say, either through length of ex- 
perience in loafing and vagabondage, or ow- 
ing to proved crime, their names are known 
to the " cats/' and their persons occasionally 
wanted. An invincible modesty character- 
ises the Poolite. He sees no distinction in 
public arrest, and the halo of a conviction 
does not allure him. In a word, he is a 
water-rat, and wishes to remain one. 

The fact that he was so well known, and 
could easily be found, was a chronic sore in 
the drink-besotted mind of Dick Robins. He 
loathed this distinction, and could he have 
gained prolonged credit at any other gin-shop 
than that of his brother Bill he would have 
shifted his quarters. The fact that, as a 
younger man, twenty years earlier, when he 
was about thirty, he had thrice served his 
term in jail, may have prejudiced him against 
any radical change in his way of life. On 
the second occasion he had appropriated in 
too conspicuous a fashion the contents of a 
pocket, that of the wife of a sea-captain with 
whom he had found it difficult to come to an 
exorbitant arrangement; and for this very 
natural action he was condemned to three 
years' imprisonment, with atrocious and ob- 
jectionable hard labour. He would have 

203 



William Sharp 

been embittered against the law to the end of 
his days, if he had not been so far mollified 
by the light sentence on his third " go," one of 
six weeks, — thus light, as the charge was 
only of having brutally kicked his wife up 
and down a barge and then into the 
half-frozen Thames. As she died of rheu- 
matic fever, Mr. Robins could not legally, of 
course, be held accountable. For twenty 
years or more Dick Robins had found gin so 
pleasing a mistress that he had been unable 
to give any but the most nominal attention — 
it would be absurd to say to the education — 
to the growth of his daughter. Her name 
was *' girl '' : that is^ his name for her. Bap- 
tized Margaret, she was com.monly called 
Madge. He realised that she was a girl, and 
comely, on account of various ideas of his 
own, and suggestions from outside, all on 
the same level of profound depravity. He 
first regarded her as a woman when, having 
lost eleven and fourpence at Wapping-euchre 
to Ned Bull, that gentleman generously of- 
fered to overlook the debt, and to spend the 
remaining eight and eightpence of the broken 
quid in two bottles of '' Jamaicy " and four 
goes of "Aunt Maria," conditionally on re- 
ceipt of Madge as the legal Mrs. Bull. The 
offer would have been accepted right off, but 

204 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

Mr. Robins found to his chagrin that the bot- 
tles of rum and goes of proof-gin would not 
be consumable till the marriage festival. 

Madge was a dark, handsome girl, tall, 
well-made though too thin, somewhat slat- 
ternly in dress, though generally with a clean 
face, and, stranger to say, with fairly clean 
hands. Neither she nor any one else would 
have dreamed of the application to her of 
the term " beautiful." Only those who 
caught a glimpse of her as she stood in a 
statuesque pose, pole in hand, on some hay 
barge or hoy in ballast, or as she sculled up 
stream or down, deft as a duck in the fen- 
tangle, noticed the beauty of her thick-clus- 
tered, ample hair, and mayhap the splendour 
of her large, dark, velvety eyes. Madge 
knew very little of shore-life, even that of 
the Horsleydown neighbourhood, and noth- 
ing at all of the larger life of that vast me- 
tropolis which represented the world to her: 
though she was vaguely aware that beyond 
the Isle of Dogs the Thames widened to that 
sea which bore the foreign ships which came 
to London, and brought so many mariners 
of divers nationalities, all equally eager for 
two things, strong drink and purchasable 
wotnen. When ashore, she was generally at 
the house of her uncle Bill the publican, or, 

205 



William Sharp 

more often, at that of her sister-in-law, Nell 
Robins. For all her rough life, her rude 
imaginings, uncouth surroundings, her igno- 
rance of refinement in speech or manner, 
Madge was pure of heart, honourable in all 
her intimate dealings, and as upright gen- 
erally as she had any call to be. 

Dick Robins was coarse and brutal enough 
in his talk when she had refused to desert 
the river-life of the Pool in order to act as 
barmaid at her uncle's public-house, the 
"Jolly Rovers.'* With all her experience — 
and she could have given points to most spec- 
ialists in blasphemy — she learned the full vo- 
cabulary of utter degradation when she told 
her father that " Gawd hisself couldn't swop 
her to that beast, Ned Bull, without her will, 
which would never be till she was drownded, 
and not then." 

The drink-sodden brute went so far, even 
before he violently struck her again and again, 
that, though he confirmed her in her abhor- 
rence of the proposed union, he was the first 
great reforming force in her life. After that, 
she realised, she might " dry up." Foulness of 
speech could go no further. A disgust of it 
all came upon the girl. She prayed an un- 
wonted prayer to that mysterious abstraction 
God, whose name she heard as often as that 

206 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

of the police, that she might have strength to 
refrain from all ugly horrors of speech, ex- 
cept, of course, such acknowledged ornaments 
of conversation as " bloody " and " damn/' 

Yet no, not quite the first, if the most im- 
mediate, reforming influence. She had already 
incurred the wrath and contempt of the Hors- 
leydown and Irongate mudswipes, by her at- 
titude towards Jim Shaw, a despised and 
hated " cat," a river policeman. He had saved 
her from drowning, on an occasion when the 
most obvious help lay with her own people, 
not one of whom, boy or man, had bestirred 
himself. '' Water-rat " though she was, and 
acknowledged foe as was every '' cat," she 
was so little at one with her kindred as to be 
able to feel grateful towards her saviour, par- 
ticularly as he was so good-looking a deliverer, 
and possessed, in her eyes, a manner of ideal 
grace and dignity. 

It was on a dirty, foggy, December after- 
noon that Dick Robins had tried, through a 
flood of blasphemy and obscenity, to drift his 
meaning alongside the wharf of the girl's 
mind. When he found that she would have 
none of it, was a rebel outright, he followed 
curses with blows, till at last, wild with rage 
and pain, Madge rushed from the low tavern 
whither her father had inveigled her. Nat- 

207 



William Sharp 

urally she made straight for the river. Hav- 
ing sprung into a dingy, she sculled rapidly 
amid-stream. She had no idea what she was 
going to do. To get quite away from that 
horrible street, from that drink-den, from that 
human beast who called himself her father — 
that was her one overmastering wish. 

An unpleasant fate might easily have been 
hers that night, had she not fortunately broken 
an oar. The swing of the current caught the 
boat, and in a moment she was broadside on. 
A wood-barge and a collier were coming down, 
and a large steamer forging up-stream, and 
there she jobbled helplessly, right in their way, 
and almost certain to be crushed or swamped. 
All the girl's usual resourcefulness suddenly 
left her. She realised that she was done for, 
a thought at which not she only but her youth 
instinctively rebelled. 

Suddenly, slump — slump — splash — came 
the wood-barge almost upon her. She saw a 
pole thrust forward to stave the dingy off from 
too violent a concussion ; and the next moment 
some one was over the low side and in the 
boat beside her. She recognised Jim Shaw, 
as in a dream. 

" Here, I'll pull you right," he said roughly ; 
'* hand me that oar." While sculling from 
the stern-rollock, he told her that he had been 

208 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

up-stream on duty, and had been given 
a lift down again by his friend, the 
owner of the barge '^ Pride of Wapping '' ; 
that he had seen her predicament, and, as the 
distance narrowed, recognised her face; and 
that " there he was." 

Madge thanked him earnestly, and re- 
marked, incidently, that " it was a bloody near 
squeak." She saw him look at her, and 
glanced back with a new, vague apprehension. 

" You're a pretty girl, Madge, and a good 
girl, I believe, — too good to use that rot. 
Wy, blast me, if I 'eard a sister o' mine use 
that word ' bloody ' so free permiskuous, I'd 
let her know — damme if I wouldn't ! " 

''Have you a sister, Mr. — Mr. — Shaw?" 
asked Madge curiously, and not in the least 
offended. 

'' No, nor no mother, neither ; but I had 
'em. Look here, Madge, I'm a lonely chap, 
an' I've took a fancy to you — did that time I 
hauled ye out o' the Pool — and I'll tell you 
wot: you cut old Robins and all that gang 
and be my gal ! " 

Madge turned her great eyes upon him. He 
thought she was scornful, or mayhap only 
reckoning up the actual and possible advan- 
tages of the connection. She, for her part, 
was taken aback by what seemed to her his 

209 



William Sharp 

splendid chivalry and the refined charm of his 
address. 

" Now then, lass, say yes or no, for we'll be 
along o' the Irongate in a jiffy, an' some o' 
your lot's bound to be there." 

" I'll be your gal, Jim Shaw," was all she 
said, in a low voice. 

Shaw thereupon gave the oar a twist, and 
kept the boat mid-stream for a hundred yards 
or so below Irongate wharf. When nearly 
opposite a small floating quay marked No. 9, 
he sculled alongside. Ten minutes later he 
had obtained leave of absence for the night, 
and then he and Madge went off together to 
hunt for lodgings. 

For the next few days Madge was fairly 
happy. She would have been quite happy if 
she and Jim could have seen much of each 
other; but it was a busy time with the river 
police, and he could not get away at night. 
He returned to their room between six and 
eight in the morning, but had to sleep till well 
after midday; and as he had to be on duty 
again by six, sometimes earlier, they had not 
much time for going anywhere together. But, 
in truths Madge cared little for the entertain- 
ments they did go to. The painted, tawdry 
women offended her in a way they had never 
done before; the coarse jokes of the men did 

210 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

not strike her as funny. She was dimly con- 
scious of a great change in herself. Physi- 
cally and mentally she was another woman 
after that first night alone with Jim. She 
was his " gal," and would be the mother of 
their '' kid " if she had one ; but it was not 
the obvious in wifehood or motherhood that 
took possession of her dormant imagination, 
but something mysterious, awful, even sacred. 
The outward sign of this spiritual revolu- 
tion, this new, solemnising, exquisite obses- 
sion, was a complete cessation from even such 
customary flowers of speech as those above 
alluded to ; and, later, a more scrupulous tidi- 
ness. What joy it was when Jim told her one 
morning that he was to have Boxing-day as 
a complete holiday! At last the heavens 
seemed opened. He proposed all manner of 
wild and extravagant trips : a visit to the in- 
side of St. Paul's or the Tower, so familiar 
externally to both — a visit to be followed 
by an omnibus-trip through the great city to 
that home of splendour, Madame Tussaud's, 
or even to the Zoological Gardens^ the monkey- 
house in which had made on Jim's boyhood- 
mind an indelible impression of excruciating 
humour. The wildest suggestion of all was 
a triple glory : the Tower and St. Paul's, then 
far away to the gorgeous delights of the 

211 



William Sharp 

Crystal Palace, and at night to the Pantomime 
at Drury Lane. 

But in great happiness the mind sometimes 
resents superfluity of joys. In deep love, as 
in deep water, says a great writer, there is a 
gloom. The gloom, in the instance of Madge, 
arose from her profound weariness of the 
streets and the house-life, her overmastering 
longing for the river. If an angel had of- 
fered her a boon, she would have fulfilled a 
passionate dream by becoming a female mem- 
ber of the river police, and being ranked as 
Jim Shaw's mate. 

When Jim realised what was in the girl's 
mind and heart, he good-naturedly, though 
not without a sigh, gave up his projects, and 
bestirred himself to please Madge. One sug- 
gestion he did make: that they should get 
'* spliced " ; but Madge thought this a waste 
of time, money, and even welfare; for she 
vaguely realised that she had, and probably 
would continue to have, more hold over Jim 
as her " man " than as her legal husband. 
" It might be better,'' he remarked once medi- 
tatively. 

" But why ? don't I love you ? " was Madge's 
naive and unanswerable reply. 

By Christmas Day all was arranged. Jim 
knew the captain of a river steamer who had 

212 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

promised to take them as far as Kew. Thence 
they were to go by rail to Windsor, to show 
Madge those two marvels, where the Queen 
lived, and " the real country " ; then they were 
to leave in time to catch the ebb-tide below 
Richmond, and go down- stream on a friend's 
hoy, the Dancing Mary, all the way to Grave- 
send. Madge v/ould thus see the country and 
the ocean in one day, and yet all the time be 
on the river. The project was a mental in- 
toxication to her. She was in a dream by 
day, a fever by night. Jim laughingly told 
her that he would be blowed if he would ask 
for another holiday soon. 

A memorable day, indeed, it proved. 
Madge's education received an almost peril- 
ously rapid stimulus. Long before dusk she 
had won for herself, besides a little rapture, 
a new pain that would henceforth be a con- 
stant ally, and perhaps a tyrant. 

The beauty even of the winter riverscape 
affected her painfully. That great stillness, 
that indescribable calm, that w^hite peace, that 
stainless purity of the vSnowy vicinage of the 
Thames near Windsor, was an overwhelming 
reproach upon life as she knew it, and upon 
herself. She was conscious of three emo- 
tions: horror of the past, gratitude to Jim, 
her saviour and revealer, and a dumb sense 

213 



William Sharp 

of the glory of life as it might be. But at 
first she was simply overcome. If she had 
not feared how Jim would take such folly, 
she would have screamed, if for nothing else 
than to break the silence. He had his pipe, 
merciful boon for the stagnant spirit and the 
inactive mind; she had nothing to distract 
her outer from her inner self, nothing to ease 
her from the dull perplexity and pain of that 
incessant if almost inarticulate soul-summons 
of which she was dimly conscious. More 
than once, even, a great home-sickness came 
upon her; a bodily nostalgia for that dirty, 
congested, often hideous, always squalid life, 
to which she had been born, and in which 
she had been bred. Once, at a lowly spot, 
where the river curved through snow-clad 
meadows, with an austere but exquisite 
beauty, she was conscious of a certain relief 
when she and her fellow-passengers were col- 
lectively swept by a volcanic lava-flood of 
abuse from an infuriated bargee, horrible 
to most ears that heard, but to her com- 
ing as inland odours to tired seamen, subtly 
welcome as it was in its appealing home- 
sound. 

She was affected as profoundly, if not so 
acutely, by the voyage down the lower reaches 
of the Thames beyond the Pool. Windsor 

214 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

itself had not greatly impressed her. It was 
too remotely grand. 

When, late that night, the hoy anchored off 
Gravesend, and through the darkness came up 
a moan, a sigh, a tumult as of muffled steps 
and stifled whispers, the voice of the sea, 
Madge, almost for the first time in her life, 
was troubled by the thought of death. The 
night was dark, without moon, and the stars 
were obscured by drifted smoke and opaque 
films of mist. An easterly wind worried the 
waves as they came slap-slapping against the 
current, and there was often a sound as of 
irregular musketry. A steady swish-swish 
accompanied the now flowing tide, or the way 
of the wind. The salt chill that came with it 
made the girl's blood tingle. She longed to 
do something, she knew not what. 

They had two berths to themselves, 
screened so efficiently as to give them all the 
privacy of a bedroom. They were very 
happy after their long wonderful day; but 
what with happiness, many pipefuls of to- 
bacco, and liberal gin, Jim soon fell asleep. 
Madge lay awake for hours. It was a 
boisterous night seaward. The reach of the 
Thames estuary thereabouts was all in a jum- 
ble. The wind, surging overhead, had a cry 
in it foreign to any inland wail or city scream. 

215 



William Sharp 

Madge listened and trembled. The sound of 
the sea calling : it was a revelation, a memory, 
a prophecy, a menace. 

II 

Next day, Madge learned what she had ex- 
pected, that her voyage down-stream had 
been duly noted by her kindred. She knew 
them well enough to regret that she and Jim 
had not kept out of sight, at any rate, from 
London Bridge to the Isle of Dogs. Jim 
laughed at her fears, but warned her to hold 
her weather-eye open, and, in particular, to 
avoid the Pool. 

This, unfortunately, was just what Madge 
could not do. She had the river-water in her 
blood. Jim might as well have put a mouse 
near a cheese and told it to stay beside the 
empty bread-plate. 

Gradually she became a more and more fre- 
quent visitor to her old haunts. It was com- 
monly understood, Irongate-way, that Madge 
had gone off with some seafaring chap, but 
was getting tired, or perhaps was not finding 
the " rhino '' quite so free. On the other 
hand, her secret was known where she would 
fain have had it unguessed. She had a good 
deal to put up with. The female Poolites had 
nasty tongues ; the males of the species, whom 

216 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

she had kept at bay before with comparative 
ease, believed that they might now have a 
turn. An unspoken but not less dreaded ban 
lay upon her on the part of her own people. 
Now and again she saw Ned Bull, and the 
savage lust in the man's brutal face, gleaming 
from its hatred and revengeful malice, sent 
all her nature into revolt. He caught her one 
day on Horsleydown stairs, and at once leered 
at her in devlish fashion and taunted her. 
She swung round and struck him full in the 
face. 

The next moment she was in the water. 
When a sympathetic bystander had hauled 
her out — sympathetic in the sense that he 
wanted to see Bull '' give the gal her change " 
in full — the man strode up and hissed in 
her ear: 

" ril knife that bully-rip o' yourn as sure's 
I'm death on * cats ; ' ay, an' wot's more, I'll 
'ave you as my gal yet." 

"Ay, Ned Bull," answered Madge, in a 
loud, clear voice, while her great eyes flashed 
dauntless defiance, '' that you will when the 
Pool's run dry, an' I'm squeaking like a rat in 
the mud; but not afore that, s' 'elp me 
Gawd!" 

After this episode Madge knew that she 
would have to be doubly on her guard. Ned 

217 



William Sharp 

Bull was not a man to have as an enemy, par- 
ticularly as he knew well where to strike the 
only blow she really feared. As it happened, 
her fears ultimately proved to be only too 
well-grounded; though some months passed 
in apparent security. 

The only one among all whom she knew 
who had remained loyal to her was a girl 
called Arabella Goodge, to whom she had once 
done a prompt service. The girl had sworn 
that she would never be content till she had 
proved her gratitude, and she meant it. The 
opportunity came at last. 

Late one afternoon in June, just six months 
after her union with Jim, Madge was aston- 
ished to hear herself asked for at the door of 
her lodging. " Is this wheer Jim Shaw's gal 
lives ? '' was not tactful, perhaps, but it was 
unmistakable. Madge recognised the voice, 
and was eager to see one whom instinctively 
she knew to be a herald of good or evil; yet 
she could not but enjoy a delay which involved 
so personal a passage of arms as that which 
took place between Mrs. M'Corkoran, the 
landlady, and Miss Goodge. Ultimately Miss 
Goodge was announced into the presence of 
" Mrs. Shaw, an' Mrs. James Shaw at that, 
an' be damned t' ye ? " 

The girl came — and at what risk to herself 

218 



^■^.^ ... ^ 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

no one could better know than Madge — to 
give warning of a plot. If the fog held, two 
boats of " rats " were to lie in wait that very 
night, and run down the Swiftsure, a par- 
ticularly obnoxious " cat-boat/' Of course 
Miss Goodge would not have troubled to track 
down and visit Madge merely to tell her an 
interesting item of news ; only it happened that 
Jim Shaw was ^' stroke " in the Swiftsure. 

Madge realised the peril at once. She 
thanked Arabella cordially, and then set off 
for Jim's station. The news was doubly wel- 
come to Jim; it meant promotion probably, 
as well as the excitement of a fight and of 
turning the tables. 

The upshot was, that a boat with three or 
four dummy figures was at the right hour 
set adrift through the fog just above the ap- 
pointed spot. The bait took. The collision 
took place, and Jim Shaw's dummy in par- 
ticular suffered from concussion of the brain 
from an iron crowbar as well as from sub- 
mersion in the river. The " rats " had 
scarcely realised how they had been befooled 
when the Swiftsure was upon them. There 
was a rush and a struggle. The Pool-boat 
was upset, and each of the late occupants 
speedily nabbed, with the exception of Ned 
Bull — an exception which Jim Shaw regret- 

219 



William Sharp 

ted personally for obvious reasons, and offi- 
cially because that individual was particularly 
wanted at headquarters, and his capture meant 
for the captor approval, and possibly promo- 
tion by the powers that were. 

Nevertheless, practical approval came. 
True, the crew of the Swiftsure were indi- 
vidually and collectively called "duffers" for 
having let Bull escape, when at least they 
might have hit him on the head with an oar: 
though to this Jim Shaw replied, and of 
course was backed up by his comrades, that 
Ned Bull must have sunk and been carried 
off in the undertow. A drowned Ned Bull 
was not so satisfactory as a caught Ned Bull ; 
but still the fact was one for congratulation. 

What most concerned Shaw was his promo- 
tion a grade higher. The superintendent 
who informed him of this rise further 
hinted that the young man was looked upon 
favourably, and that he might expect to get 
on, if he kept acting on the square and was 
diligently alert for the wicked. 

On his way home next morning, eager to 
tel^ Madge the good news, Jim pondered on 
how best to celebrate the occasion. Suddenly 
an idea occurred to him. Promotion and pros- 
pects have a stimulating effect on ethical 
conceptions. Jim decided, firstly, that he 

220 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

would make Madge his legal wife; secondly, 
that he would forgive his enemies and invite 
old Robins and Will of the '' Jolly Rovers," 
and Bob Robins and his wife, and make a 
day, or rather an evening, of it. This, he 
was sure, would give Madge a position and 
importance which she :could not otherwise 
have, while it was almost the only way (ex- 
cept the convenient if perilous one of double- 
dealing) to remove, or at least to modify, the 
resentment which Madge had incurred. 
Madge was delighted with his news. It 
meant another day, sometime, up the river; 
another night, Gravesend way, within sound 
of the sea; and, moreover, Jim could now 
carry out his fascinating projects in connec- 
tion with Madame Tussaud's and the Crystal 
Palace. To the question of the marriage 
ceremony she preserved an indifferent front. 
If Jim really wished it, she, of course, was 
willing; if he didn't, it was equally the same 
to her. The girl, in fact, was one of those 
rare natures to whom the thing was every- 
thing and the symbol of no moment. But 
she was seriously opposed to Jim's Christian 
charity in the matter of the proposed wedding 
party. She loved his sentimental weakness, 
but, with her greater knowledge of ineradi- 
cable depravity, she thought that the honour 

221 



William Sharp 

of her father's company might be dispensed 
with. She yielded at last to the suggestion 
as to her brother Bob and his wife, with a 
stipulation as to Arabella Goodge, but dis- 
paragingly combated the claims of her uncle. 
Being a woman, however^ having begun yield- 
ing, she yielded all. Before Jim went off to 
the river that night, the marriage-day was 
fixed, and it was decided that, at the subse- 
quent party at the aristocratic river-side tav- 
ern, the '^ Blue Boar," the company of Jim and 
his groomsman, Ted Brown, and of Madge 
and her bridesmaid, Arabella Goodge, was to 
be further graced by Mr. Dick Robins (if 
sufficiently sober), Mr. and Mrs. Robert Rob- 
ins, and Mr. William Robins of the "Jolly 
Rovers." 

The marriage was to take place three weeks 
hence, as Jim was to get his long-promised 
holiday for a week, from the morning of Sat- 
urday the 1 8th of July till the evening of Fri- 
day the 24th. What a week this was to be! 
Three days of it was to be spent in the re- 
mote and wild country of Pinner, of which 
suburban locality Jim was a native, though 
he had not been there since he was a small 
boy. His aunt owned a small sweet-shop and 
general stationery business there, and would 
receive him and his bride for the slack days, 

222 



iHll 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

Monday till Wednesday. As for the other 
days, the proposals of Madge were wild, and 
those of Jim fantastically extravagant. The 
young man was more in love with Madge 
than ever, having the sense to see that she 
was one among a hundred or a thousand. 
Their life together had been a happy one for 
both. It was Jim, however, and not Madge, 
who took a pleasurable interest in the fate 
of the child whose birth was expected in Sep- 
tember. 

It was on the 15th of July, just three days 
before the projected marriage, that Madge 
was startled, or at least perturbed, by an ur- 
gent message brought to her by a pot-boy 
from the '' Jolly Rovers." Her father was ill, 
dying, and wanted to se her at once. 

Madge was neither hard-hearted nor a 
cynic, but it was with perfect sincerity that 
she remarked, sotto voce, '* Til be blowed if 
I'll rise to that fake.'' Later, however, some- 
thing troubled her. A new tenderness, if 
also a new weariness, had come to her ever 
since she became daily and hourly conscious 
of the burden she bore within her. She was 
so much an unsullied child of nature, despite 
all her discoloured and distorted views of 
life, that this mystery of motherhood had all 
the astounding appeal of a new and extra- 

223 



William Sharp 

ordinary revelation. Jim's child and her's! 
The thought was strange and quiet as that 
winter landscape she had seen once and never 
forgotten; though at times as strangely and 
overmasteringly oppressive as the silence of 
the starry sky, seen through the smoke or 
lifting fog, or above the flare of the gas- 
lamps in the street. 

The result was that she set out for Plum 
Alley, off Thompson's Court, the trans-river- 
ine home of her father, when he was not at 
the " Jolly Rovers " or elsewhere. On the 
way she called at the station to see Jim, but 
heard, to her surprise, that he was on special 
duty Horseleydown-way. She muttered that 
she might perhaps come across him, as she 
was just going there herself, a remark which 
the superintendent heard disapprovingly. 
" Shaw's out on ticklish business, my girl," 
he said, kindly enough ; '* and it would be bet- 
ter if you were to keep out of his way : better 
for us, better for him, and better for you." 
All the same Madge, as she went on her way, 
hoped she might at least get a glimpse of 
Jim. Since the Swiftsure incident she had 
never felt at ease when Shaw was on special 
duty. She was aware that Ned Bull, even 
if he was not drowned, had left a legacy of 
hate and revenge. 

224 



■MM 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

The July evening was heavy and sultry. 
The air was as though it consisted of a poison- 
ous cloud of gin-flavoured human breath, with 
rank odours of divers kinds. In the narrow 
courts and alleys near the river the heat was 
stifling. The thunder, which all the after- 
noon had growled menacingly round the met- 
ropolitan skirts beyond Muswell Hill and 
Highgate^ had stolen past the eastern heights 
of Hampstead and crawled through the 
murky gloom of the town till it rested, sulk- 
ily brooding, from Pimlico to Blackfriars. 

As Madge crossed the river, and stood 
for a few minutes to look longingly at the 
water, she noticed first that the tide was just 
on the turn of the ebb, and next that a thick, 
sultry fog, scarce less dense than a typical 
** London mixture," was crawling stealthily up- 
stream from Shoreditch and Wapping. She 
was thinking of Jim, and was rather glad 
that he was on shore-duty. 

When at last she reached Plum Alley, she 
found, somewhat to her surprise, that her 
father really awaited her. On the other hand 
she saw at a glance that his " sudden illness '' 
was a '' fake." 

Dick Robins, however, did not give his 
daughter time for an indignant retreat, much 
less for reproaches. 

225 



William Sharp 

" Look 'ere, girl," he began hoarsely, " your 
brother Bob's in trouble, an' you're the only 
blarsted swipe as can 'elp 'im. S' 'elp me 
Gawd^ this yere is true, ev'ry word on it, an' 
no fake. Wot? eh? Were is 'ee? Wy, 
'ee 's down China Run way. 'Ee's waitin' 
there. Waitin' for wot? Wy, blarst — I 
mean, 'ee's awaitin' fur the stranger. Wot 
stranger? Wy, the stranger as you've to run 
down through the fog to the Isle o' Dogs." 

Hoarse explanations, with remonstrances 
on the part of Madge, ensued, but at last she 
both understood and agreed. She had been 
brought up in full recognition of that cardinal 
rule that many things have to be done in life 
without knowing the why and the wherefore. 
She believed in the present emergency, and 
understood why the task of conveying the 
stranger down-stream could be intrusted to 
no Poolite under a cloud. She was to go 
down to the sadly miscalled Larkwhistle 
Wharf, where she would find a boat in charge 
of a man. In the stern would be the "bun- 
dle." She was not to speak to this 
'' bundle " on any account, and was not to 
worry " it " with curious looks. She was to 
row down-stream till off Pig Point in the 
Isle of Dogs, and wait off-shore till another 
boat joined her, and relieved her of her 

226 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

freight. The man, a friendly lighterman, 
would act as look-out and bow-pilot. 

"Wot about the weddin', father?" said 
Madge, somewhat reluctantly, as she was 
about to leave. 

Mr. Robins put down the bottle of "Aunt 
Maria," from which he had just taken a hoarse 
gurgling, salival swig. 

"Oh — ah — to be sure — wot about the 
weddinM Ha, ha! Well, I'm blarsted if I 
know if my noomerous parlyhairymentary 
dooties " — hiccough and choke — " yes, by 
Goramity, Tm bl . . ." 

Madge did not wait to hear any more. She 
had done her duty so far, and the sooner the 
rest of it was fulfilled the better content 
would she be. 

She could not leave, however, without a 
parting shot. Dick Robins heard her voice 
as she vanished downstairs : " Remember, 
father, if you and 'Aunt Maria' come to- 
gether on Saturday, you won't be allowed 
in!" 

When she reached Larkwhistle Wharf she 
was perspiring heavily. The brooding thun- 
der overhead, the stagnant atmosphere, the 
airless, suffocating fog, made existence a 
burden and action a misery. Movement on 
the water, however, promised some relief. 

227 



William Sharp 

There was no one on the wharf, nothing 
beside it except a boat in which a muffled 
figure crouched in the stern-sheets, with a 
tall man seated upright in the bow. This 
was her boat, clearly. 

As she stepped across the gunwale, Madge 
started and trembled. For a moment she 
thought she recognized in the silent, surly 
lighterman, no other than Ned Bull ; but when 
she saw that he looked away, indifferent so 
far as she was concerned, and noticed that 
his hair was black and curly, and that he had 
a long beard, her sudden suspicion and fear 
lapsed into mere uneasiness. As for the 
other passenger, he was evidently determined 
to betray himself neither by word nor by 
gesture. 

In silence, save for the occasional splash 
of an oar and the steady gurgling wash at the 
bows, Madge rowed the boat down-stream. 
Thrice she was unpleasantly conscious of the 
hot breath of the lighterman upon her cheek ; 
at the third time, and without looking round, 
she quietly asked him to keep a steady look- 
out in front of him, as in such a fog an ac- 
cident might occur at any moment. 

At last she guessed that she was off the 
Isle of Dogs. She was glad. Not only was 
she exhausted with the heat and labour, but 

228 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

somewhat anxious now about the condition 
of the boat, a rotten tub at the best. It had 
begun to leak, and the chill, muddy water 
clammed her ankles. Suddenly, through the 
fog, she heard the lighterman give a peculiar 
double-whistle. Almost immediately after- 
wards a boat, rowed swiftly by two men, shot 
alongside. 

The next moment the lighterman was 
aboard the new-comer. Once seated, he 
leaned over, and, whispering hoarsely to 
Madge to row straight on, after turning the 
boat's bow shoreward, told her that as soon 
as he came to a pier she was to let the other 
passenger out. The man had scarce finished 
speaking before he and his companions be- 
came invisible in the mist. 

Madge was again alarmed. The voice, 
surely was the voice of Ned Bull. She 
could have sworn to it, and yet — ? 

Wiping the sweat from her forehead, and 
pausing on her oars for a moment to listen 
to the distant moan and billowy hollow roar 
of the thunder, which had at last broken its 
brooding silence, she noticed suddenly that 
the leakage was rapidly becoming serious. 
The water was high above her ankles, and 
was swiftly rising. A gurgling sound be- 
hind her betrayed where the danger lay. The 

229 



William Sharp 

boat had been plugged, and the plug had just 
recently been removed ! 

Barely had she realized this when the dingy 
raked up against a jagged spike, and began 
to settle down. 

She knew it all now, all except the mystery 
of this taciturn, moveless stranger. So, Ned 
Bull was to have his revenge. But the need 
of prompt action brought all her energies 
into play. " Now then, you there," she cried 
angrily to her mute fellow-passenger, " youVe 
got ter move if you don't want to fill yer 
boots wi' bottom-mud. We're sinkin', d'ye 
'ear? . . . Drat the bloomin' cove, 'ee's 
asleep! Hi!" 

But here there was a lurch and a rush of 
water. The boat collapsed, as though it 
were a squeezed sponge. 

No sooner had Madge found her breath 
after her submersion than she struck out to- 
wards and made a dive for her companion, 
who was evidently unable to swim, and was 
fast drowning. 

A minute later she had grasped him by his 
rags. She was conscious at the same mo- 
ment of a red light piercing the gloom: the 
bow-light of a barge-bug churning sputter- 
ingly against the current and towing a half- 
empty hoy up-stream. She gave a loud cry 

230 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

for help, and then another that was more 
like a shriek. The second was the result of 
a discovery that she had just made. The 
body in her grip was not that of a living man, 
nor even of a man who had just died. It 
was a corpse, stiff and chill. 

The shock terrified her. For a moment she 
believed that she had been made accessory 
to some foul murder. She let go of the hid- 
eous bundle of rag-clothed flesh she was up- 
holding as best she could. Another moment, 
and the corpse would have been sucked under 
and swept down-stream: a vague instinct 
made Madge suddenly reach forward and 
grip the body again. 

The lights of the tug and the green and red 
lanterns of the hoy now streamed right upon 
her. Weighted as she was with her soaked 
clothes, and the burden of her close on seven 
month's motherhood, she struggled not only 
to withstay the current, which fortunately 
was sweeping her steadily towards the hoy, 
but to keep the corpse from sinking until at 
least she could see it clear. Still, the strain 
was too great, and she was just about to let 
go, when a broad ray of light flashed full 
athwart the dead face. 

It was that of Jim Shaw, her husband. 

For a moment the world reeled. Death 

231 



William Sharp 

called to her out of the windy darkness over- 
head, out of the rushing river, out of the sea- 
reaches beyond; Death sang in her ears, and 
held her body and soul as in a vice; Death 
was in her heart, in her brain, on her lips, in 
the dull glaze of her staring eyes. 

Suddenly a mad rage swept her back into 
the tide of agony that was life. With a swift 
gesture she raised the head of the corpse, and 
stared wildly into the lightless, unrecognising 
eyes. The wash of the water and her grasp 
had loosened the rags in which Jim had been 
disguised, and she saw the purple bruise and 
gaping knife-thrust-wound through which 
his young life had gone. 

With a long, terrible cry of despair Madge 
let go of the body of her beloved, and herself 
sank back into the water as a dying woman, 
after a last flicker of life, might fall back 
into the pillows. If all had occurred a little 
earlier or a little later, she would have been 
drowned then and there, and have suffered no 
more. 

The man at the helm on the tug-boat caught 
sight of her, and yelled to the man at the 
bow of the hoy. The bargeman missed her, 
owing to the rapid slush and surge of the 
churned water alongside; but his comrade at 
the stern caught at the swirling clothes with 

232 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

a bill-hook, and in a few minutes Madge was 
lying unconscious on the deck of The Golden 
Hope. Her rescuers had seen nothing of the 
row-boat, nor even of the body to which she 
had clung; but they strained their eyes and 
ears lest any other unfortunates should be 
in need of succour. 

It was fortunate for Madge that there 
was a woman on board. The wife of the 
master of The Golden Hope was not like so 
many of the Poolites, merely a female, but a 
woman. 

In the middle of the night, just before the 
break of dawn, a man-child was prematurely 
born into the world, in the stuffy deck-house 
of the barge. It was born dead: "an' a 
precious good thing too, drat it for its imper- 
tinence in a-coming where it wasn't wanted/' 
as Mrs. Hawkins of The Golden Hope philo- 
sophically remarked. She had understood at 
once that the new-comer was not born in law- 
ful wedlock. Had the little one lived, had it 
even been born alive and breathed feebly for 
a brief season, the good woman would not 
only have lamented its decease, but would 
have kept close to the letter of the law. As 
it was, she had a hurried colloquy with her 
husband, a circumlocutory argument to the 
effect that the poor young mother might as 

233 



William Sharp 

well be saved all the shame and trouble, and 
perhaps worse. 

Mr. Peter Hawkins listened gravely, nod- 
ded once or twice in an uninterested way, 
spat once cautiously, then again meditatively, 
and finally, emphatically. He left the deck- 
house, and in a minute or two returned with 
a large and heavy brick. 

The dawn broke as The Golden Hope en- 
tered and passed through the Pool. A soft, 
tender wave of daffodil light blotted out the 
eastern stars. The rigging and masts of the 
vessels at the docks and in the river became 
magically distinct, and the red and yellow 
lanterns flared gaudily. Here and there a 
green lantern-light danced along a narrow 
surface of dark water fast turning into a hue 
of slate. A dull noise came from the city 
on either side, though London seemed asleep. 

On the river there was silence, save for an 
indiscriminate grinding noise from a large 
Baltic screw steamer, timed to sail at sunrise ; 
and, on a China tea-clipper, a Malay singing 
shrilly, with fantastic choric variations of a 
strange, uncanny savagery. 

As the barge slump-slushed through the 
deepest part of the Pool, a small package was 
dropped overboard. It sank immediately. 
This package was, in the view of Mr. and 

234 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

Mrs. Hawkins, a cold little body with a heavy 
brick tied round its feet; to its mother, who 
had just returned to full consciousness, the 
burial was as that of her own joy, her own 
life. 

Madge was much too weak to move, even 
if kindly Mrs. Hawkins had hinted that her 
absence would be preferable to her company. 
The woman had taken a fancy to the poor 
lass, with her great eyes filled with grief and 
despair, with at times, too, a wild light which 
looked like passionate hate. 

She had had a talk with her husband, and 
had decided to keep Madge w4th then till the 
barge reached Sunbury, where she had a sis- 
ter, who in the summer months kept a small 
tea and ale house for her own benefit and 
the refreshment of cheap trippers and way- 
farers. There she would leave the girl for 
a time, in the care of Polly 'Awkins. If 
Madge could pay for her keep, so much the 
better; if not, why then o' God's grace she 
and Polly betwixt them would provide for 
her for a bit till she could look round. 

And at Sunbury in due course poor Madge 
was left. She had become a different woman 
in the few days which succeeded the death 
of Jim and the premature birth and loss of 
the child of their love. A frost had come 

235 



William Sharp 

over her youth. She was so still and strange 
that, at first, good, kindly, superabundantly 
stout Miss Hawkins was quite awed by her. 
The woman's generous kindness at last broke 
down the girl's reserve, and the whole story 
was confided to her. There was something 
so romantic in it to Polly Hawkins, the very 
breath of wild romance indeed, that, for all 
her disapproval and misapprehension of 
Madge's action in the matter of a legalised 
union, she was completely won over. Never, 
even in the Family Astounder or the West 
End Mirror, monthly parts or old bound vol- 
umes of which she was wont to pore over in 
the winter nights, had she come across any- 
thing that stirred her so much. But she passed 
from her high vicarious excitement into some- 
thing resembling the emotional state of a 
participant in a tragedy in real life, when, 
one wild rain-swept evening late in August, 
all the bitter pain and agony and passion of 
Madge's ruined life broke out in revolt. 

She had only one wish now, she declared, 
only one object: to be revenged on her father, 
and, above all, on Ned Bull. She was no 
longer a girl with a heaven of happiness ahead ; 
she was a wrecked woman, with a choice 
between going to pieces on the breakers or 
being engulfed in a quicksand. Since all was 

236 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

ruin ahead, was she to surrender everything, 
to go tamely hence, a victim with no will or 
power of retribution? No, she swore, as 
with flashing eyes and erect figure she moved 
to and fro in the kitchen parlour, she would 
not be content till she had made her father 
pay her for his crime, pay with his life, and 
till she saw Ned Bull swing on the gallows. 

Miss Hawkins realised that Madge was in 
earnest — passionately, insanely in earnest ; 
and she trembled. She had come to love the 
girl, and though her departure would be a 
loss both to her and her pocket (for Madge 
had communicated with Jim's comrades, who 
had raised a handsome subscription for her 
when they found that officially nothing could 
be done), she would not otherwise be ill at 
ease. But now — now it would be to let a 
murderess loose. Why, some day it would 
all be in the papers. A prospective persual 
of certain headlines brought out a cold pers- 
piration upon her neck and forehead : " 'Or- 
rible Murder in the Docks," ".Last Confes- 
sion," " Execution of Madge Robins," *' What 
did the Bargee do with the Baby?" "Testi- 
mony of Polly Hawkins," and so forth. 

Miss Hawkins rose, looked at Madge in 
fear and trembling and deep admiration, all 
merged in a profound and loving pity. But 

^Z7 



William Sharp 

she had not the gift of expression, and all 
she could say was : " My dear, 'ave some 
black-currant cordial." 

Madge, however, understood. The tears 
broke out in a flood from her eyes, and with 
sobs and shaking frame she threw herself in 
the arms of her friend. 

The following day was Sunday. As much 
for distraction as for any other reason. Miss 
Hawkins persuaded Madge to go with her to 
church. Madge had never been in a church, 
and for the first part of the service she was 
too shy and bewildered to understand, much 
less to enjoy, what she saw and heard. The 
singing soothed her, and some of the prayers 
left haunting echoes in her brain. The clergy- 
man was that rare individual, a fervent 
Christian and a perfectly simple man, who did 
not fulfil his priestly duties perfunctorily, but 
as though he were a wise and loving gardener 
watering the precious flowers of a strict but 
beloved Master. She followed, or cared to 
follow, very little of what he said; but his 
earnestness impressed her. Through all his 
discourse sounded, like a wild moan and wail 
of the sea-wind, the words of his text : *' For- 
give us our sins, as we forgive our enemies." 
" Then shall we be together with the Lord," 
were the last words she heard the vicar utter, 

238 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

before the congregation rose at the benedic- 
tion. 

In discussing the matter later with Miss 
Hawkins she did not gain much enlighten- 
ment. Miss Hawkins said that religion was 
meant to be took like gin, with a good allow- 
ance of water. '' It didn't do to take things 
just as they were spoke. Vicars an' sich- 
like were paid same as other folks, an' their 
business was to deal out salvation dashed wi' 
hell-fire. 

" My dear," she added, " there's nary a man 
livin', be he a vicar or only a Ranting Johnny, 
who doesn't promise us more of both one and 
the other than there's any need for." 

Madge did not sleep much that night. She 
was vaguely troubled. The fire of her wrath 
burned low; and though she heaped coals of 
remembrance upon it, the flare-up was a fail- 
ure. 

At breakfast next morning she asked Miss 
Hawkins abruptly if she had heard the vicar 
say, ** Forgive us our sins, as we forgive our 
enemies," and, if so, what she thought of it. 

Miss Hawkins finished her tea. Medita- 
tively she scooped out the sugar and slowly 
refilled the cup. 

*' Not much," she said. 

The rest of the meal was taken in silence. 

239 



William Sharp 

The day was so glorious that Madge wan- 
dered forth into a field near the river, unwit- 
tingly elate with returning youth and strength, 
and quick to answer to the sun's summons to 
the blood and the spirit. 

She lay for a long time through the noon 
heat, instinctively revelling in the flood of 
sunshine. The sky was a dome of deepen- 
ing blue, flecked with a few scattered grey- 
mare's-tails ; the meadows were flush with the 
second hay and autumnal wild-flowers. Be- 
yond her feet the river swept slowly by, the 
golden light falling along its surface and at 
once transmuted into silver and azure; while 
at the margins the over-hanging trees threw 
a cloud of flickering green shadows into the 
moving movelessness below. 

It was almost happiness to lie there so 
quietly, and watch the swallows swooping to 
and fro, the cows standing knee-deep in the 
shallows and flapping lazily their long tails, 
the purple dragon-fly shooting from reedy 
pool to pool. For the time being, the agony 
of remembrance was dulled. 

More and more Madge perplexed herself 
by pondering over what she had heard in 
church. She had never felt as she had to- 
day. There was a new peace, a new hope al- 
most, in her troubled mind, though it had not 

240 



i 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

yet taken definite form. The strange and 
baffling concourse of her thoughts, however, 
left her weary. The whole ebb and flow 
found expression, perhaps, in the sole words 
she spoke aloud: 

" No, that I can't : I can't make much of it. 
But I do see that going back to that hell of 
life at the Pool, even wi' letting my father 
be, an' knockin' out the knifin' o' Ned Bull 
an' leavin' 'im, as the parson says, to Gor- 
amity, is not the way to get alongside o' Jim 
again, let alone that babby wich he'll 'ave 'igh 
an' dry sure as dixey." 

It was nigh upon sundown before Madge 
clearly saw her way of salvation. ** She'd 
got to die somehow " ; but all her instincts 
were in revolt against that inevitable trans- 
ference to the earth which would be her fate 
if death came upon her at Polly Hawkins's or 
any other house. " She couldn't abide the 
land: she knew that: not for all the blessed- 
ness of it ten times over." 

Shortly before sunset she descried a boy 
going along the Sunbury towpath. She called 
him, and for sixpence he readily agreed to 
write a pencilled note at her dictation and 
thereafter deliver it to Miss Hawkins. 

When the boy was gone Madge waited a 
little while. She watched the sun grow large 

241 



William Sharp 

and red, and fall through the river-haze into 
the very middle of the river-reaches higher 
up. Then she found herself listening intently 
to a corncrake calling hoarsely close by 
through the tall v^heat. 

It seemed so little to do, and after all so 
little even to say farewell to. 

A brief v^hile after sunset a great red and 
yellow hoy, with a tattered brown sail out- 
spread aloft to catch what breeze there was 
that would help the slow current, came heav- 
ily down-stream. It was laden with rye, and 
the man and boy on deck were drowsy with 
the heat and labour of the day. Neither of 
them felt the slight shock when the dilapi- 
dated bow-keel caught upon some obstruction. 

It was late that night when the Lively 
Nancy, in tow of a fat, unwieldy little barge- 
bug, slumped heavily through the jumble in 
the Pool. There was a heavy slashing, criss- 
cross of water above, and, below the surface, 
a serpentine twisting and dovetailing, with 
vicious downward suction. The tide was 
running up like a mill-race; the river-current 
and a high westerly wind tore their way sea- 
ward. 

In this fierce conflict the bent keel of the 
Lively Nancy was at last cleared of its ob- 
struction. 

242 



Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 

For an hour or more thereafter, till the 
river police discovered it, a woman's body 
was tossed to and fro in the Pool, idly drift- 
ing and bumping against the slimy piers, 
along the gaunt, deserted wharves. 



243 



The Gypsy Christ 



THE GYPSY CHRIST 

CHAPTER I 

There are, among the remote uplands of the 
Peak district, regions whose solitude is that 
of a wilderness. Over much of the country 
there is a frown. When fair weather pre- 
vails, though these lofty plateaux are seldom 
wholly free from cloud-shadow, this frown 
is merely that of a stern man, preoccupied 
with sombre thoughts. When there come 
rain and wind, and still more the dull absorb- 
ing gloom that floods out of the east and the 
north-east, the frown is forbidding, mina- 
tory even, at times almost tragic. Viewed 
anywhere from High Peak to Sir William, 
these uplands are like the sea. They reach on- 
wards, lapse, merge into each other, in a simi- 
lar succession of vast billows: grand as they, 
as apparently limitless, and, at times, as over- 
whelmingly depressing. 

The villages are scattered, insignificant; 
built of dull, grey stone: gardenless, flower- 
less. The people are uncouth in speech and 
manner : cold, too, as the stone of their houses, 
and strangely quiet in the ordinary expression 
of emotion, 

247 



William Slmrp 

In all regions where the wind is the para- 
mount feature in the duel between man and 
the powers of nature, as upon the seas and 
great moorland tracts, it is noticeable that 
human voices are pitched in an unusually low 
key. In remote islands, upon mountains, on 
the billows of hill-land that sweep up from 
the plains and fall away in dales and valleys, 
on long flats of grass, fen, or morass, and 
upon the seas, the human voice takes to itself 
in time a peculiar and, to those who know 
the cause, a strangely impressive hush. Here, 
it is as of men subdued, bitter even, for ever 
gloomful. 

No land is so dreary as to be without re- 
deeming beauty. The hill region of the Peak, 
that most visited, at any rate, has singular 
charm. The dales are famous for their love- 
liness, their picturesqueness ; the heather 
slopes for their blithe air ; the high moors for 
their wide perspectives, their clear windy 
breath, their glory of light and shadow. 
Nevertheless, there are vast districts where 
nature, and man, and the near way and the 
wide prospect, and the very immensity of the 
environing sky are permeated with the inner 
spirit of gloom, as the cloud-caravans of July 
with their burden of thunder. 

There are reasons why I do not wish to be 

248 



The Gypsy Christ 

explicit topographically, in what I am about 
to narrate: indeed, no one from what I write 
could find the Wood o' Wendray, or the House 
o' Fanshawe. It must suffice, that what I 
have to tell occurred in the remotest, perhaps 
the grandest, certainly to me the most impres- 
sive region of the Peak-Land. 

Far among these uplands — at the locality 
alluded to, from twelve or fifteen hundred to 
two thousand feet above the sea — there is an 
almost trackless morass, called Grailph Moss. 

The name is by some supposed to be a cor- 
ruption of '' grey wolf " : for here, according 
to rumour, the last wolf in England had its 
lair, and might have been living still (for the 
huntsmen aver that the grey wolf lives three 
hundred years!) but for its audacity at the 
time of the Great Plague. Packmen and 
other wayfarers have alleged that on wild 
nights of storm, or in even more perilous 
seasons of mist or marsh-fog, they have seen 
a gaunt shape leap towards them from a dense 
clump of heather or from behind a juniper, or 
have heard, behind or in stealthy circuit, ter- 
rifying footfalls as of a huge dog. 

Grailph Moss comes right upon an old dis- 
used highway. Along this road, at far in- 
tervals, are desolate hamlets: in all save the 

249 



William Sharp 

three summer months, apt to be isled in the 
mist breathed from the myriad nostrils of the 
great Fen. At these times, the most dread- 
ful thing to endure is the silence. 

Not far from one of these hamlets, and 
somewhat more removed from the contagion 
of the Moss : high set, indeed, and healthy, if 
sombre of aspect save under the fugitive 
bloom of the afterglow, or where redeemed 
by the moonlight to an austere beauty, — is a 
strange house, the strangest I have seen any- 
where. 

The House o' Fanshawe, it is called in the 
neighbourhood: though what is perplexing is 
that the name is centuries old, though for 
generations no family of that name occupied 
the Manor of Eastrigg: nor is there any lo- 
cal legend concerning a Fanshawe, or record 
of any kind to account for the persistency of 
the designation. 

Long before my friend, James Fanshawe, 
took the Manor, ruin had come upon the 
middle as well as the northern portion. In 
fact, the southern end, which had been the 
original Elizabethan house, was scarce better, 
and had been preserved at all only because 
of its fantastic, often beautiful, and always 
extraordinary roof and wainscot carvings. 
These were none the less striking from the 

250 



The Gypsy Christ 

fact that they were whitewashed. Many 
were in a fashion suggestive of the arabesques 
of Barbary, such as are to be seen to this day 
in the private houses of the rich Moors of 
Tlemgen or Tunis. Others recalled the freaks 
of the later Renaissance imagination: and 
some were of Gothic rudeness and vigour. 
But the most extraordinary room of all was 
a small chamber opening from a large vaulted 
apartment. All the panels on three sides of 
the room, and the whole roof, were covered 
with arabesques of the Crucifixion: no one 
whitewashed carving quite like any other, 
though all relentlessly realistic, sometimes 
savagely, brutally so. The fourth side was of 
varnished black oak. Against this, in star- 
tling relief, was a tall white cross, set in a 
black stand; with a drooping and terrible 
figure of the crucified God, the more pain- 
fully arresting from the fact that the sub- 
stance of which it had been wrought had been 
dyed a vivid scarlet, that, with time, had be- 
come blood-red. 

A word as to how I came to know this 
house in this remote and desolate region. 

Two or three years ago, when wandering 
afoot through Croatia, I encountered James 
Fanshawe. There is no need to narrate what 

251 



William Sharp 

led up to our strange meeting — for a strange 
meeting, in strange circumstances, and in a 
strange place, it was. It will suffice for me 
to say that our encounter, our voluntary ac- 
quaintanceship, and our subsequent friend- 
ship, all arose from the circumstance that 
each of us could, with more justice than some 
who have done so, claim to be a Romany Rye 
— which is not exactly " a gentleman-gypsy," 
as commonly translated, but rather an ama- 
teur-gypsy, or, as a " brother " once phrased 
it to me, *' a sympathising, make-believe 
gypsy." There are some who can talk the 
dialects of " Little Egypt," or at least under- 
stand them, and many who know something 
of the folk-lore, habits and customs of the 
wandering people: but there are few, I take 
it, who have lived the gypsy-life, who have 
undergone, or even heard of, the ordeal of 
the Blue Smoke, the Two Fires, and the Run- 
ning Water. 

Thereafter we met on several occasions: 
frequently in Italy, or the Tyrol, or southern 
Germany : generally by pre-arrangement. 
The last time I saw Fanshawe, until I met 
him in Glory Woods, near Dorking, was in 
the Hohenheim country, on the high plateau 
to the southwest of Stuttgart. It was then he 
told me he had been to England, and had 

252 



The Gypsy Christ 

travelled afoot from Southampton to Hull: 
and that he had at last decided to settle in 
that country, probably in the New Forest re- 
gion. I promised to visit him in England 
when next there. I wanted to fare a while 
with him there and then; but as it was clear 
he did not at that juncture wish my company, 
I forbore. 

James Fanshawe was a noticeable man. 
Tall, sinewy, ruddy, though with dark, lumi- 
nous eyes and long, trailing, coal-black 
moustache, he would not have seemed more 
than thirty years old but for his iron-grey 
hair, and the deep crow's-feet about his mouth, 
eyes, and temples. As a matter of fact, he 
was, at the time I first met him, at the Mid- 
summer's-day of human life; for he had just 
entered his fortieth year. 

One early spring day, when, by the merest 
hazard, we came across each other in Glory 
Woods, he reminded me that nearly two years 
had passed since my promise to visit him. 
He had not, after all, settled in the south 
country, but, he told me, in a strange old 
house, in a remote and wild moorland tract 
of Derbyshire. While he spoke, I was ob- 
servant of the great change in him. He had 
grown ten, fifteen years older in appearance. 
The iron-grey hair had become white; the 

253 



The Gypsy Christ 

strong face rigid; the swift, alert look now 
that of a visionary, or of one who brooded 
much. Perhaps the most marked change was 
in the eyes. What had always struck me as 
their dusky, velvety Czech beauty was no 
longer noticeable. They were much lighter, 
and had a strange, staring intensity. 

But I was glad to see him again: glad to 
pick up lost clues, and glad to be able to 
promise to be with him at Eastrigg Manor by 
the end of the sixth week from that date. 

That is how I came to know the " House o' 
Fanshawe." 



CHAPTER II 

Eastrigg itself is more than twenty miles 
from the nearest station. The drive thence 
seemed the longer and drearier because of 
the wet mist which hung over the country. 
Even sounds were soaked up by it. I never 
passed through a drearier land. Mid-April, 
and not a green thing visible, not a bird's 
note audible! 

The driver of the gig was taciturn, yet could 
not quite restrain his curiosity. He was not 
an Eastrigg man, but knew the place, and all 
connected with it. He would fain have as- 
certained somewhat about its owner ; perhaps, 

2S4 



The Gypsy Christ 

too, about myself, or at any rate about my 
object in coming to the reputed haunted, if 
not accursed. House o' Fanshawe, where my 
host-to-be lived alone, attended only by an 
old man named Hoare, a *' foreigner " too, be- 
cause come from the remote south country. 
When, however, he found me more reserved 
than himself, he desisted from further inquiry, 
or indeed remarks of any kind. 

It was in silence that we drove the last ten 
miles; in silence that we jolted along a rude, 
grassy highway of olden days, heavily rutted ; 
in silence that we passed, first one, then an- 
other gaunt ruin, — two of the many long- 
deserted lead-mine chimneys which stand here 
and there throughout that country, and add 
unspeakably to its desolation. Finally, in si- 
lence we reached the House o' Fanshawe. 

A small side-door, under heavy beams, 
opened. An elderly man stood, his right hand 
over his eyes, and his left holding a lantern 
which emitted a pale yellow glow, beneath 
which his face was almost as wan and white 
as his bleached hair. 

He looked at me anxiously, questioningly, I 
thought. Instinctively, I inquired if Mr. 
Fanshawe were unwell. 

*' Are you a doctor ? " he asked, almost in a 
whisper ; adding, on my reply in the negative, 

255 



William Sharp 

*' I hoped you might be. I fear the master is 
dying." 

Startled, I unburdened myself of my wet 
overcoat, and then followed the man along a 
rambling passage. On the way, he confided 
to me that though Mr. Fanshawe was up and 
about, he had been very strange of late, and 
that he ate little, slept little, and was some- 
times away on the Moss or the higher moors 
for ten or twelve hours at a time; further, 
that within the last few days he had become 
steadily worse. 

Even this forewarning did not adequately 
prepare me for the change in my friend. 
When I saw him, he was sitting in the twi- 
light before a peat fire on which a log, aflame 
at one end though all charred at the other, 
burned brightly. His hair was quite white: 
so white that that of his man, Robert Hoare, 
was of a yellow hue by comparison. It hung 
long and lank about his cadaverous face, 
which, in its wanness and rigid lines, was that 
of a corpse, except for the dark luminous 
eyes I remembered so well, once more like 
what they were in the days I first knew him, 
but now so intensely, passionately alive, that 
it was as though the flame of his life were 
concentrated there. He rose, stiffly and as 
though with difficulty, and I saw how wo- 

256 



William Sharp 

fully thin he had become. It was with a shock 
of surprise I realised what vitality the man 
still had, when he took my hand in his, gripped 
it almost as powerfully as of yore, and half 
led, half pushed me into an arm-chair oppo- 
site his own. 

Yes, he admitted, he had been ill, but was 
now better. Soon, he hoped, he would be 
quite well again. The eyes contradicted the 
lie of the lips. 

After a time our constraint wore off; but 
though I avoided the subject of his health and 
recent way of life, he interrupted me again 
and again to assure me that he would not have 
let me come so far, to visit so dreary a house 
and see so unentertaining an invalid, had he 
known how to intercept me. 

Suddenly he rose, and insisted on showing 
me over the house. Room by room fascinated 
me; but that small chamber of which I have 
already spoken, that with the crucifix, gave 
me nothing short of an uncontrollable re- 
pugnance, something akin to horror. He no- 
ticed this, though neither the lips offered nor 
the eyes invited any remark. 

No wonder that from the several ominous 
circumstances of this meeting I was half pre- 
pared for some unpleasant or even tragic 
denouement. But, as a matter of fact, noth- 

257 



William Sharp 

ing happened to alarm or further perturb me ; 
and long before I went to my room I had no- 
ticed a marked improvement in Fanshawe, 
that is, in his mental condition; physically, he 
was still very distraught as well as frail, and 
appeared to suffer extremely from what I took 
to be nervous cold, though he said it was the 
swamp-ague. *' The Moss Fiend had got 
him," he declared. He wore a long frieze 
overcoat, even as he sat by the fire; and all 
the time, even at our frugal supper, kept his 
hands half-covered in thick mittens. 

Naturally enough, I did not sleep for long. 
In the first place, sleep is always tardy with 
me in absolutely windless or close, rainy 
weather; then the absolute silence, the sense 
of isolation^ affected me ; and, more effectually 
still, I could hear Fanshawe monotonously 
walking to and fro in the room to my right. 
This room, moreover, was no other than the 
fantastically decorated ante-chamber. I could 
scarce bear to think of my distraught friend, 
sleepless, and wearily active, in the company 
of that terrifying crucifix, that chamber of 
the myriad reduplications of the Passion. 
But at last I slept, and slept well; nor did I 
wake till the late sunlight streamed in upon 
me through the unshuttered and Mindless win- 
dow. 

258 



The Gypsy Christ 

We spent most of that day in the open air. 
The morning was so blithe and sweet, Fan- 
shawe lost something of his air of tragic ill; 
and I began to entertain hopes of his ultimate 
recovery. But in the early afternoon, when 
we had returned for the meal which had been 
prepared for us an hour before, the weather 
changed. It grew sultry and overclouded. 
The glass, too, had fallen abruptly. The 
change affected my friend in a marked degree. 
He became less and less communicative, and 
at last morose and almost sullen. 

I proposed another walk. He agreed, with 
an eagerness that surprised me. '' I will show 
you one or two places where I often go," he 
added : " places that the country people 
about here avoid; for the moor- folk are su- 
perstitious, as all who live in remote places 
are." 

The day, as I have said, had become dull 
and heavy; and what with the atmospheric 
change, and the saturnine mood of my com- 
panion, I felt depressed. The two gaunt 
chimneys which rose above their respective 
mines were my skeletons at the feast. Other- 
wise I could have enjoyed many things in, 
and aspects of, that unfamiliar country; but 
these tall, sombre, bat-haunted, wind-gnawed 
" stacks," rising from dishevelled ruins, which, 

259 



William Sharp 

again, overlay the deserted lead-mines, op- 
pressed me beyond all reason. 

At one of these we stopped. Fanshawe 
asked me to throw something into a hollow 
place beyond one of the walls of a building. 
I lifted a large stone, and threw it as di- 
rected. I thought, at first, it had fallen on 
soft grass, or among weeds and nettles, for no 
sound was audible. Then, as it were under 
foot, I heard a confused clamour, followed by 
the faint echo of a splash. 

^' That will give you some idea of the depth 
of the mine,'' my companion remarked quietly. 
" But it is deeper than you imagine, even now. 
There are sloping ledges under that water in 
which the stone fell at last ; and beneath these 
ledges are corridors leading far into the cav- 
erns whence nothing ever comes again." 

'' It is not a place for a nervous person to 
come to," I answered, with as much indiffer- 
ence as I could assume ; *' nor for any one 
after sundown, and alone." 

Fanshawe looked at me passively, then said 
quietly that he often came there. 

" I wonder," he added, '' how many dead 
will arise from a place like this when the 
trump of the Resurrection stirs the land?" 

'* Has any one ever fallen into this mine, or 
been murdered in it ? " 

260 



The Gypsy Christ 

" They say so. It is very likely. But 
come: I will show you a stranger thing.'' 

So on we trudged again, for, I should think, 
nearly a mile, and mostly through a thin wood. 
I wondered what new unpleasant feature of 
this unattractive country I was to see. It 
was with half-angry surprise I was confronted 
at last by a thick scrub of gorse, overhung by 
three large birches, and told that there was 
what we had come to see. Naturally, 
there was nothing to arrest my attention. 
When I said so, however, Fanshawe made 
no reply. I saw, that he was powerfully 
affected, though whether grief or some other 
emotion wrought him, I could not deter- 
mine. 

Suddenly he turned, said harshly that he 
was dead tired, and wished to go home 
straightway. Beyond a statement about a 
short cut by Dallaway Moor, he did not 
vouchsafe another remark until we reached 
the Manor. 

At the entrance Hoare met us, and was 
about to speak, when he saw that his master 
was not listening, but, rigid, with moving jaw 
and wild eyes, was staring at the panels of 
the door. 

" Who . . . who has been here ? " he 
cried hoarsely ; but for answer the man merely 

261 



William Sharp 

shook his head stupidly, muttering at last that 
not a soul had been near the place. 

** Who has been here ? Who has been here ? 
Who did this ? " my friend gaspingly reiter- 
ated, as he pointed to a small green cross, the 
paint still wet, impressed a foot or more 
above the latch. 



CHAPTER III 

Fanshawe was taciturn throughout the 
first part of the evening. We ate our meal in 
silence. Afterwards, in his study, he main- 
tained the same self -absorption, and for a long 
time seemed unaware that he was not alone. 
The atmospherical oppression made this si- 
lence still more obvious. Even the fire burned 
dully, and the smoke that went up from the 
mist-wet logs was thick and heavy. 

It was with a sense of relief I heard an 
abrupt, hollow, booming sound, as of distant 
guns at sea. The long-expected thunder was 
drawing near. For many minutes after this 
the silence could be heard. Then there came 
a blast of wind that struck the house heavily, 
for all the world like an enormous billow 
flooding down upon and all but engulfing a 
dismasted ship. 

Fanshawe raised his head, and listened in- 

262 



The Gypsy Christ 

tently. A distant, remotely thin wail was 
audible for a few seconds: the voice of the 
wind-eddy far away upon the moors. Then, 
once more, the same ominous silence. 

*' I hope the storm will break soon/' I said 
at last. 

" Yes. We'll have one or two more blasts 
like that, then a swift rain ; then the night will 
become black as ink, and the thunderstorm 
will rage for an hour or so, and suddenly 
come back upon us again worse than before." 

I looked at my friend surprisedly. 

" How can you tell ? " 

" I have seen many thunderstorms and gales 
on these moorlands." 

I was about to say something further, when 
I saw a look upon my companion's face which 
I took to be that of arrested thought or ar- 
rested speech. 

I was right in my surmise, for, in a low 
voice, he resumed: 

*' You will doubtless hear many another 
storm such as this. As for me, it is the last 
to which I shall ever listen: unless, as may 
well be, the dead hear. After all, what 
grander death-hymn could one have ? " 

*' You are ill, Fanshawe, but not so ill as 
you believe. In any case, you do not fear you 
are going to die to-night?" 

263 



William Sharp 

He looked at me long and earnestly before 
he answered. 

"I — suppose — not,'' he said slowly, at 
last, but in the meditative way of one revolv- 
ing a dubious matter in his mind : " no, I sup- 
pose not necessarily to-night/' 

A long, discordant cry of the wind came 
wailing across the Reach o' Dallaway. It was 
scarce gone, when a ponderous distant crash- 
ing betokened the onset of the elemental strife 
to be fought out overhead. 

The effect upon Fanshawe was electric. 
He rose, moved to and fro, twice went to the 
window, and drew up the blind. The second 
time, he opened the latch. The window was 
of the kind called half-French ; that is, it was 
of a single sheet of glass, but came no further 
than two-thirds of the way down, the lower 
third being of solid wood, and could be 
opened (drawn inward) only in its glazed 
section. 

He withdrew the fastening, stooped, and 
peered into the yard. A stealthy, shuffling 
sound was audible, followed by a low whine. 

Fanshawe seemed satisfied, and, having 
closed the latch, drew together the thick, 
heavy curtains. 

** That was my bloodhound, Grailph," he 
explained. " I always let him out at night 

264 



The Gypsy Christ 

He keeps watch here. He is a huge beast, 
cream-white in colour, and so is as rare and 
remarkable as he is trustworthy. I brought 
him, as a puppy, from Transylvania. The 
people hereabouts hate and fear him : the more 
so, because of his name. I have told you 
about the legend of Grailph Moss? Yes? 
Well, the rumour has filtered from mind to 
mind that my Grailph is no other than the 
original Grailph, or Grey Wolf; and that in 
some way he, I, and the ' House o' Fan- 
shawe ' are connected in an uncanny destiny." 

" Are you quite sure you're not ? " I inter- 
rupted, half in badinage, half in earnest. 

He took my remark seriously, however. 

" No ; I am not sure. But who can tell 
what is the secret thing that lies hidden in 
the shadow, in the wave, and in the brain?" 

" Ah, you remember what old Mark Zen- 
gro said that day by the cavern of the Jallu- 
sietch, in Bohemia! How well I remember 
that afternoon: how he called you brother 
and '' 

^^Well?" 

'* Oh, and what a strange talk we had after- 
wards by the fire, when " 

" No ; that was not what you were going to 
say. You were about to add : ' How angry 
you were when Zengro made zvith his fore- 

265 



William Sharp 

finger the sign of a circle about him; and how 
you nearly left the camp then and there! Is 
not that true?" 

" Yes, it is true/' 

*' I thought so. Well, I had good reason to 
be angry." 

^' Oh, his action meant only that he took 
you to be fey, as we say in the north." 

" No, it meant more than that. But this 
brings me to what I have wanted to say to 
you : what must be told to-night." 

He stopped, for the roar about the house 
shook it to its foundations : one of those swift, 
howling whirlwinds which sometimes precede 
the steady march of the mighty host of the 
thunder. 

When it was over, he pulled away the smok- 
ing logs from the fire and substituted three 
or four of dry pine and larch, already dusted 
with salt. The flame was so vivid and cheer- 
ful that, when my host eclipsed the lamplight, 
and left us in the pleasant firelit gloom, the 
change was welcome, though the wildness of 
the night without seemed to be enhanced. 

For at least five minutes Fanshawe sat 
silent, staring into the red glow over which the 
blue and yellow tongues of flame wove an 
endless weft. Then, abruptly, he began : ^ 

^His narrative, in its earlier stages, was much 

266 



The Gypsy Christ 

"You know that I have Gypsy blood in 
me. It is true. But I do not think you know 
how strong in the present, how remote in the 
past, the strain is. In the twelfth century my 
parental ancestors were of what might be 
called the blood-royal among the Children of 
the Wind. One of them, head of a great 
clan at that time dispersed, during the sum- 
mer months, through the region of the New 
Forest, was named John the Heron. Hunt- 
ing one day in these woodlands, the king's 
brother was set upon by outlaws. They 
would have killed him, or at least withheld 
him against a ransom, but for the bravery of 
his unknown Gypsy ally. The royal duke was 
grateful, and so in turn was the king. Wild 
John the Heron became John Heron of Roe- 
hurst and the lands round Elvwick. He had 
seven sons, five of whom died tragic deaths 
or mysteriously disappeared. The eldest in 
due time succeeded his father; the youngest 
travelled into Derbyshire in the train of a 
great lord. In those days the most ancient, 

longer than my partial reproduction of it; for some 
of it dealt with irrelative matters, some of it was 
merely reminiscent of our own meetings and experi- 
ences in common, and some of it was abruptly dis- 
cursive. Interwrought with it were the sudden 
tumults, the tempestuous violence of that night of 
storm: when, through it all, the thunder was to me 
as the flying shuttle in the loom of Destiny. 

267 



William Sharp 

the proudest, but even then the most impov- 
erished of the old families of that region, 
was the house of Ravenshawe. Its head was 
Sir Alured Ravenshawe, a man so haughty 
that it was said he thought the king his in- 
ferior. Gilbert Heron was able to do him 
a great service; and ultimately, through his 
influence, the young man succeeded to the 
name and titles of a beggared and outlawed 
knight, Sir Vane Fanshawe. Nevertheless, 
there could have been no question of the mar- 
riage of the young Sir Gilbert Fanshawe (for 
the name of Heron was to be relinquished) 
with the lady Frida, though the young people 
had fallen in love with each other at their first 
meeting; and, ultimately, it was permitted at 
all, and then reluctantly, only because of two 
further happenings. The first of these was 
the undertaking of the great lord with whom 
the young man was (a near kinsman and 
friend of Sir Alured Ravenshawe), that the 
king would speedily make Sir Gilbert Fan- 
shawe of Roehurst in Hants and Eastrigg 
in the shire of Derby a barono At that time 
there was no actual village of Eastrigg, but 
only a small hamlet called Fanshawe, or, as 
it was then given. The Fan Shawe. These 
lands belonged to Ravenshawe, and he gave 
them to his daughter as a wedding gift, on 

268 



The Gypsy Christ 

the condition that the king made her be- 
trothed to a noble, and that he became known 
as Baron Fanshawe of Fanshawe. 

**A11 this was duly done, and yet there 
seems to have been deception in the matter 
of the Gypsy origin ; for about the time of the 
birth of an heir to my lord of Fanshawe, Sir 
Alured refused to hold any communication 
with his son-in-law, or even to see his 
daughter. A Ravenshawe, he declared, could 
have nothing in common with a base-born 
alien. 

" It was some years after this that strange 
rumours got about concerning not only Lord 
Fanshawe but also The Chase, as his 
castellated manor was called. A wild and 
barbaric folk sojourned in its neighbourhood, 
or in the adjacent forests. A contagion of 
suspicion, of a vague dread, of a genuine ani- 
mosity, spread abroad. Then it was com- 
monly averred that my lord was mad, for had 
he not been heard to proclaim himself the 
Christ, or at any rate to speak and act as 
though he were no other than at least the 
second Christ, of whose coming men dreamed ? 

" One day Sir Alured Ravenshawe ap- 
peared in the camp of the Egyptians, as the 
alien wandering folk were wont to be called. 
What he learned from the patriarch infuriated 

269 



William Sharp 

him to frenzy. ' Let the dog of the race of 
Kundry die the death he mocks/ he cried; 
* and lo, herewith I give you my bond that 
no harm shall come to you or your people's 
goods, though you must sojourn here no 
more.' 

** Then it was that the Egyptians waylaid 
their kinsman^ the Lord Fanshawe of Fan- 
shawe, and crowned and mocked him as the 
Gypsy Christ, and crucified him upon a great 
leafless tree in the forest now known as the 
Wood o' Wendray. Thereafter, for a long 
period, the place knew them no more. But 
in going they took secretly with them the in- 
fant Gabriel, only child of the House o' Fan- 
shawe." 

For a time after this Fanshawe ceased 
speaking. We both sat, our gaze intent upon 
the fire, listening to the growing savagery of 
the storm without. Then, without preamble, 
he resumed. He had a habit, when in the 
least degree wrought by impatience or excite- 
ment, of clasping and unclasping his hands; 
and his doing so now was the more noticeable 
because of the strange tapery look of the fin- 
gers coming from the rough, close mittens he 
wore. 

" That Gabriel Fanshawe never saw Eng- 
land again, nor yet did his son Gabriel. The 

270 



The Gypsy Christ 

name was retained privily, though among his 
blood-kin in Austria or Hungary he was 
known simply as Gabriel Zengro, the kin- 
name of the patriarch who had adopted him 
after the crucifixion of his father. 

" Long before his grandson was a man well 
over forty years, — and it was not till then 
that the third Gabriel visited England to see 
if he could claim his heritage, — the lands of 
Eastrigg, the house and hamlet of Fanshawe, 
and Wester Dallaway, not only were ex- 
empted from all claim upon them by any one 
of the blood of Gilbert Fanshawe, the barony 
in whose name was cancelled, but had, in turn, 
passed from the hands of the old knight of 
Ravenshawe into those of the family of Fran- 
cis, with whom they remained until the fall 
of the Jacobite dynasty, after which they were 
held by the Hewsons, until (sadly diminished) 
they came again into the ownership of a Fan- 
shawe with my purchase of them. 

" But though Gabriel Zengro the third 
found that he had lost his title and northern 
inheritance, he was able to recover possession 
of Roehurst. There he settled, married, and 
had two children — known only, of course, by 
his English surname. In the fiftieth year of 
his age he became markedly unpopular with 
his fellows. He was seen at times to frequent 

271 



William Sharp 

a rtide and barbaric sect of vagrants, even to 
live with them; and the rumour spread that 
his foreign wife was really one of these very 
aliens. Then he was heard to say wild and 
outrageous things, such as might well hang a 
man in those times. The upshot was that 
one day he returned to his home no more. 
His body was found transfixed to a leafless 
tree in the forest beyond Grailph Moss." 

"Beyond Roehurst, you mean?" I inter- 
rupted. 

" No, I mean what I say. His crucified 
body was found in the forest beyond Grailph 
Moss, in that part of it called the Wood o' 
Wendray." 

" That is," I interrupted again, ** where the 
same frightful tragedy had been enacted in 
the instance of the victim's grandfather?" 

" Even so. But though Gabriel Fanshawe 
had been lured or persuaded or kidnapped out 
of Hants, he was certainly alive after he 
crossed the Derwent, for a huntsman recog- 
nised him among his people one day, and spat 
on the ground to the north, south, east, and 
west. The lord of Roehurst disappeared in 
this mysterious fashion; and none of his 
neighbours of the south learned aught of his 
doom, but only his wife knew, the tidings 
having been conveyed to her I know not how. 

272 



The Gypsy Christ 

But from the record she put in writing, it is 
clear that with the message had come a sum- 
mons, perhaps a menace; for, together with 
her two children, she betook herself to the 
greater safety of London. There the girl 
died, calling vainly, and uttering strange 
words in a tongue no one spake or under- 
stood. But the boy lived, and in course of 
years grew to manhood, and on the death of 
his mother went to reside upon his own lands. 
Nor was it till after his marriage, and the 
birth of a son, that he read the record his 
mother had caused to be writ, and so came 
into the knowledge that has been the awe and 
terror of those lineally descended from him. 
*' But neither he nor his son came to any 
harm, save the common doom of all. Of his 
grandson wild things were said, but all that is 
known certainly is that he hanged himself 
upon the great oak in front of Roehurst. 
He, too, however, had left a Gabriel behind 
him as his successor, in due time a good 
knight and learned man, who brought up his 
only child worthily and steadfastly. Strange 
that the heir of two such loyal and excellent 
men should prove so feather-brained as to 
love the woods better than the streets, and 
the wild people of the woods better than 
courtiers and scholars! Stranger still that 

273 



William Sharp 

the old omens should recur, till, at last, Ger- 
vase Fanshawe, after an awful curse upon 
all of his blood, and terrifying blasphemies, 
openly set fire to his manor, and himself, 
with his little daughter (though the young 
Gabriel escaped), was consumed in the flames. 

" Thus, with tragic alternations, went the 
lives of my forbears, till, after many genera- 
tions of English Fanshawes, the house of 
Roehurst came to an end with Jasper Fan- 
shawe." 

At that moment so savage an onslaught of 
wind and rain was made upon the house, so 
violent a quake of thunder shook the walls, 
that further speech was impossible for the 
time. But, save by his silence, my companion 
took no notice of the tumult. His eyes were 
very large and wild, and stared spell-bound 
upon the fire, as though they beheld there the 
tragic issues to the many memories or 
thoughts which tyrannised his brain. 

" I said that the family of Roehurst," he 
resumed, as soon as comparative quietude 
had followed that wild outburst, though the 
wind moaned and screamed round the gables 
and among the old chimneys, and the rain 
slashed against the window-pane in contin- 
uous assault, ** I said that the family of Roe- 
hurst came to an end with Jasper Fanshawe. 

274 



The Gypsy Christ 

This was at the close of the eighteenth cen- 
tury. Jasper was the last of his race, and, 
the rumour ran, one of the wildest. Almost 
on the eve of his wedding it transpired that 
when, in his youth, he had gone away with 
and lived among the Gypsy-people, he had, 
as most, if not all, of his progenitors, mar- 
ried a Romany girl. The union was not one 
that would be recognised by the English law ; 
but the authentic news of it, and the con- 
firmed rumour that Squire Fanshawe had a 
son and daughter living, brought about a duel 
between him and the brother of his betrothed. 
With rash folly this duel was fought in the 
woods, and witnessed by no one save the 
Gypsy * messenger,' who kept the squire al- 
ways in view." 

"The Gypsy-messenger, Fanshawe?" 
"Yes. That is the name sometimes used. 
The old word means the doom-watcher. The 
latter is the better designation, but I did not 
care to use it. 

" Well, my ancestor killed the man Charles 
Norton. The deed was the worse for the 
survivor, in that Norton was the favourite 
son of the most influential man in the country- 
side. In a word, the slaying was called mur- 
der, and Jasper Fanshawe was proclaimed. 
His sole chance lay with his blood-folk. The 

275 



William Sharp 

doom-watcher came into Winchester, and 
testified to what he had seen while hiding 
among the bracken in the forest; but his evi- 
dence was overborne, and, rightly or wrongly, 
he was himself clapped into prison on a 
charge of rick-burning. 

" No trace could be found of the fugitive, 
nor of the * Egyptians ' with whom he made 
good his escape. The large encampment in 
Elvwick Wood had broken into sections, 
which had severally dispersed, and all had 
vanished almost as swiftly and effectually as 
the smoke of the camp-fires. 

'' Whatever I may surmise, I do not know 
for certain the manner of Jasper Fanshawe's 
death. His son, James, lived for the most 
part in Hungary ; at other times in the remote 
lands between the Caspian and the Adriatic. 
He took in preference the old kin-name of 
Heme, which, indeed, his father had adopted 
after his flight from England. 

'' This James Heme lived to an old age, and 
became one of the ' elder brothers ' of his 
particular tribal branch. His son Gabriel, 
however, left his kindred, and went to Vi- 
enna, where he studied medicine. There, 
while still relatively a young man, he gained 
an important post at Prague, and in a year or 
so became what would here be called a mag- 

276 



The Gypsy Christ 

istrate. He was noted for his severity in 
dealing witli all vagrants, but especially in the 
instance of any Gypsy delinquent. At this 
time, as from his early Vienna days, he was 
known as Vansar, a Romany equivalent for 
Fanshawe. On three separate occasions his 
life was attempted, though each time the 
would-be assassin escaped. Gabriel Vansar 
was not the man to be intimidated; indeed, 
he became only the more stringent and tyran- 
nical, so that soon there was not a gypsy en- 
campment within a twenty-mile radius of 
Prague. In his thirty-sixth year he was of- 
fered a medical professorship in Vienna. In 
that city he met a Miss Winstane, a beautiful 
English girl, the sole child of Edward Win- 
stane, a justice of the peace for South Hants, 
and squire of Roehurst Park and the greater 
part of the parish of Elvwick. Miss Win- 
stane loved her handsome wooer, and the 
marriage was duly solemnised. Though he 
spoke with a slight foreign accent, Mr. Van- 
sar knew his paternal language thoroughly; 
for though * James Heme ' had ceased to be 
English in all else, he had been careful to 
teach his son his native tongue, and indeed 
always to speak it when alone with him. 

" Neither Mr. Winstane nor Winifred Win- 
stane ever knew that Gabriel Vansar was 

277 



William Sharp 

Gabriel Heme the Gypsy, or, in turn, that he 
was the grandson of that Jasper Fanshawe 
whose flight from Roehurst had been fol- 
lowed by the confiscation of his property, and 
its disposal to Edward Winstane the elder. 

'' As a matter of fact, Mr. Winstane died a 
few months after the marriage of his daugh- 
ter. Gabriel Vansar now relinquished his 
post, and went to England to live the life of 
a country squire. There he had three chil- 
dren born to him: two sons and a daughter. 
Naomi was the youngest by several years, 
and at her coming her mother went. Of the 
two sons, Jasper was the elder, I the 
younger/' 

CHAPTER TV 

Although not taken wholly by surprise, I 
exclaimed, '' You, Fanshawe? " — adding that 
indeed the chain of circumstances was re- 
markable. 

"Yes. . . . Well, when my brother was 
twenty-one, and I nineteen, our father died. 
He had changed much since our mother's 
decease, and had become strangely depressed 
and even morose. There was adequate ex- 
planation of this in the sealed papers which he 
left to Jasper. 

'' But now I must diverge for a moment. I 

278 



The Gypsy Christ 

have something very strange to confide to 
you. . . . But first tell me : have you heard of 
Kundry?'' 

*' Of Kundry ! " I repeated, bewildered. 

" You love music, I know ; and I thought 
you might have heard of Kundry." 

*' Ah, yes, I know now. You mean the 
woman in Parsifal?" 

" Yes. At the same time, Wagner does not 
give the true legend. He did not even know 
that the name is a Gypsy one, and very 
ancient. I have heard that some people think 
it imaginary; others, that it is old-time 
Scandinavian. But our people, the Children 
of the Wind, are far more ancient than any 
one knows. We had earned that very name 
long before the coming of the Christ. We 
had, however, another name, which, were I 
to translate literally, would be something like 
' the Spawn of Sheitan ' : given us because 
we were godless, and without belief in any 
after-life, and were kingless and homeless, 
and, compared with other peoples, lawless. 
As we were then, so in a sense we are now: 
for though we do not deny God, we neither 
worship Him nor propitiate Him nor fear 
Him; nor have we any faith in a future, be- 
lieving that with the death of the body that 
which is the man is dead also; and kingless 

279 



William Sharp 

we are, save for the common overlords, Time 
and Death; and homeless, except for the cur- 
tains of the forest and the dome of the sky, 
and the lamps of sun and moon; and, even 
as the wind is lawless and the sea, so also are 
we, who are more unstable than the one and 
more vagrant than the other. 

" Nearly nineteen hundred years ago a 
tribe of our race — ^ the first tribe,' it was 
called, because it claimed to be the original 
stock — was in the hill-country beyond Jeru- 
salem. 

" It was in the year of the greatest moment 
to the modern world : the year of the death of 
Jesus of Nazareth. 

" I need not repeat even in the briefest 
way details which are universally familiar. 
It is enough to say that some of our people 
were on the Hill of Calvary on the Day of 
Anguish; that among them was a beautiful 
wanton called Kundry; and that as the Suf- 
ferer passed to His martyrdom, she laughed in 
bitter mockery. Turning upon her, and know- 
ing the darkness of her unbelief and the evil 
of which she was the embodiment, the Christ 
stopped and looked at her. 

" * Hail, O King ! ' she laughed mockingly. 
* Vouchsafe to me, Thy Sister, a sign that 
Thou art indeed Lord over Fate; but Thou 

280 



The Gypsy Christ 

knowest Thou canst not do this thing, and 
goest to Thy death ! ' 

" Then the Christ spake. * Verily, thou 
shalt have a sign. To thee and thine I be- 
queath the signs of my Passion, to be a shame 
and horror among thy people, for evermore/ 

"Therewith He resumed His weary way. 
And Kundry laughed, and followed. Again, 
during the Agony on the Cross, she laughed, 
and again at the last bitter cry of the Son of 
God; but in the darkness that suddenly came 
upon the land she laughed no more. 

" From that day the woman Kundry, whom 
some have held to be the sister of the Christ, 
was accurst. Even among her own people 
she went veiled. Two children she bore to 
the man who had taken her to his tent: chil- 
dren of one birth, a male child and a woman 
child. 

" They were in their seventh year, when, 
in a wild Asian land, Kundry came out among 
her people and told them that she, the Sister 
of Christ, had come to deliver them this mes- 
sage, that out of the offspring of her womb 
soon or late would arise one who would be 
their Redeemer, who would be the Gypsy 
Christ. 

'' When the young men and maidens of her 
people mocked, the elders reprimanded them, 

281 



William Sharp 

and asked Kundry to give some proof that she 
had not the sun-fever or the moon-madness, 
or other distemper of the mind. Whereupon 
the woman appalled them by showing upon 
her hands and feet the stigmata of the Cruci- 
fixion. 

" But, after the first wonder, and even awe, 
a great horror and anger arose among the 
kindred. Three days they gave her within 
which to take back that which she had said, 
and to confess the trickery of which she had 
been guilty, or at least to reveal the way in 
which she had mutilated herself and so healed 
the wounds. At sundown, on the third day, 
the strange and awful signs were still there; 
nor would the woman retract that which she 
had said. So they scourged her with thorny 
switches^ and put a rough crown of them 
round her head, and led her to a place in the 
forest where there was a blasted tree. And 
as she went she stopped once, and looked to 
see whose mocking laugh made her last hour 
so bitter; and lo, it was the girl whom she 
had borne in her womb. Then they crucified 
her, and she gave up the ghost in the third 
hour before the dawn. But because that the 
children were so young, and bore no mark 
of the Curse, and were of the First Lineage, 
they were spared." 

282 



The Gypsy Christ 

At tMs point my companion ceased. Lean- 
ing forward, he stared into the fire as one in 
a vision. A long silence prevailed. Outside, 
the wind wailed wearily, rising at times into a 
screaming violence. The heavy belching roar 
of the thunder crashed upon us ever and 
again, and even in the firelit room with its 
closed curtains the lighting glare smote the 
eyes. 

Fanshawe apparently did not hear; perhaps 
he did not see. I watched him intently, the 
more curiously because of what he told me 
and what I inferred. At last a strange, a 
terrifying cry startled even his abstraction. 
He sprang to his feet, and looked wildly at 
the window. 

" It was the wind," I said ; " I heard it like 
that a little ago, though not so loudly, or with 
so weird a scream." 

Fanshawe made no reply. After a pro- 
longed stare at the curtained window, and a 
nervous twisting and untwisting of his fingers, 
he seated himself again. Then, almost as 
though he had not broken his narration, he 
resumed : 

" The son and daughter of Kundry were 
spared by the enemies of the tribe as well as 
by their kindred, or rather they escaped the 
cruelty of the one as well as the fanaticism of 

283 



William Sharp 

the other; for the tribe was almost extermi- 
nated by the shores of the Euphrates, and 
only Michael and Olah, the son and daughter 
of Kundry, with a few fellow-fugitives, 
reached a section of their race temporarily 
settled some fifty miles to the north. 

*' There ' the laughing girl,' as Olah was 
called, partly in memory of her mother, partly 
because of her own laughter at her mother's 
death-faring, and partly because of the musi- 
cal mockery wherewith she angered and de- 
lighted the tribesmen, brought unhappiness 
and ruin among * the rulers/ There were 
three brothers of the ancient race, and each 
came to disaster and death through Olah. 
But through their death Michael came to be 
what you would call the Prince of the Chil- 
dren of the Wind. There was but one evil 
deed recorded against him — the murder of 
his sister. But — so the ancient chronicle 
goes — this act was not out of cowardice or 
malice; it was to remove the curse of the 
mother, not only from those of her blood, but 
from the race. The deed was done in the 
year when Michael's wife bore him their sec- 
ond child, a girl. Before Olah's death — and 
she died in the same way as her mother — she 
took the little Sampa in her arms, and breathed 
her life into it. On the day of the crucifixion 

284 



The Gypsy Christ 

the child turned in her sleep in her mother's 
arms, and laughed as child never laughed be- 
fore. 

'' The story thereafter is a long one. It is 
•all in the secret record of our people, though 
known to a few only. I could tell it all to 
you, with every name and every happening, 
but this would serve no purpose to-night. 
Suffice it, that link by link the chain is un- 
broken from Michael and Sampa, the children 
of Michael, brother of Olah, the son and 
daughter of Kundry who laughed at the Christ 
on Calvary, even unto the three offspring of 
Gabriel Fanshawe, who was called Vansar, 
and was of the tribe of the Heron." 

Could it be, I wondered, as I looked intently 
at the speaker, that this man before me was 
the lineal descendant of that Kundry who had 
laughed at Christ; that he was the inheritor 
of the Curse; and that for him, perhaps, as 
for so many of his race, the ancestral doom 
was imminent? With an effort I conquered 
the superstitious awe which I realised had 
come upon me. 

'' Do you mean this thing," I said slowly — 
" do you mean that you, James Fanshawe, are 
the direct descendant of Kundry, and that the 
Curse lives, and that you or some one of 
your blood, whether of this or a later genera- 

285 



William Sharp 

tion, must ' dree the weird ' even as your for- 
bears have done ? " 

" Even so : I am as I say ; and the Curse 
lives ; and no man can evade the doom that is 
nigh two thousand years old." 

I waited a few minutes, pondering what best 
to say. Then I spoke: 

*' The story is a strange and terrible one, 
Fanshawe. But even if exactly as you have 
told it, surely there is no logical necessity why 
you or your brother or sister should inherit the 
Curse. There has, by your own admission, 
been frequent admixture of a foreign and 
Christian strain in your lineage. Your father 
was, to all practical intents, no more a Gypsy 
than I am. He married an English girl, and 
lived the life of a country squire, and was no- 
wise different from his kind except in his 
perhaps exaggerated bitterness against Gyp- 
sies, though, by the way, not so different in 
this respect either, for the country gentle- 
man loveth not the vagrant. In a word, he 
himself, with all his knowledge of the past, 
would have laughed at your superstitious ap- 
plication of the legend." 

Fanshawe turned upon me, his great lumi- 
nous eyes aflame with the fire of despair. I 
could see that he was in passionate earnest. 

'' My sister might have laughed/' he said in 

286 



The Gypsy Christ 

a voice so low as almost to be a whisper, but 
with significant emphasis: ''my sister might 
have laughed, not my father." 

'' Why, Fanshawe," I exclaimed, startled, 
'* you do not mean to say that your sister 
is — is— " 

''A daughter of Kundry." 

I received the remark in silence. I did not 
know what to think, much less what to say. 
My nerves, too, were affected by the electric 
air, the ever-recurrent surge and tumult of the 
thunderstorm; and I felt bewildered by what 
I heard, by what, despite its improbability, I 
knew that I believed. At last I asked him to 
resume, saying I knew he had not ended what 
he had set himself to tell me. 

" No, I have not ended. 

" From what I have told you, will have 
gathered that the Curse does not show itself in 
every generation, but in the third. I cannot 
say that the death record is unvarying, for I 
do not know ; nor has it been possible to trace 
every particular of a remote ancestry. But 
here is a strange thing: that in all but three 
instances, so far as known, no son nor daugh- 
ter of Kundry has ever had more than two 
children. From generation to generation that 
bitter laugh has never lapsed. From genera- 
tion to generation it has brought about dis- 

287 



William Sharp 

aster and shame. Many, even as I have done, 
have dreamed that the Curse might be ex- 
piated or outlived; but it may well be that 
even as in every generation ' the laughing 
girl ' who is of the race of Kundry mocks 
God, so in every third generation, till the 
Christ come again or the world be no more, 
there may be the tragedy of my ancestral 
woe. 

" All this my father knew ere he died. He 
had meant to carry the secret to the grave, 
and by many precautions believed he had 
safeguarded his children from contact with 
the people he hated and dreaded, though he 
was of them himself. 

" About the time when my father's morose 
and brooding manner was first noted, my 
brother Jasper had fallen ill. It was a mys- 
terious trouble, and no doctor could name the 
malady. Once, only, I saw my father furious, 
— on the day when he learned that there was 
an encampment of Gypsies in Elvwick Woods, 
and that Jasper who was as impassioned in 
religion as Saint Francis himself, had been 
among the wandering people, striving to win 
them to the brotherhood of Christ. Our 
father did not know that I and my sister 
Naomi had already discovered the camp, and 
had been fascinated by the dark people and 

288 



The Gypsy Christ 

their way of life and the forest freedom, — 
so that we could think of little else, and 
yearned to be in the greenwood, even as a 
bird to spread its wings beyond the bars of 
its cage. 

** It must have been immediately after this 
that my father made the discovery which 
changed him from one man to another. 
Neither Naomi nor I knew aught of it at the 
time, though we were aware that something 
dire had happened, something of awe, of 
dread. 

" For when Jasper rose from his bed of 
sickness there were upon his feet and upon 
his hands the purple bruise and ruddy cica- 
trix of the great nails of the Crucifixion." 

For a few moments Fanshawe paused, and 
drew a painful, laboured breath, as of a man 
in pain or a great weakness. 

** After our father's death, Jasper shut him- 
self up in his room, and would see no one. I 
used to creep along the passage at dusk, and 
listen to the wild incoherences of his prayers. 
We, Naomi and I, were very dismal, and it 
was with relief that, one evening, we fled into 
the forest and joined our friends, more 
mysterious and alluring than ever because of 
the terrifying things which had been said of 
them by him who was now dead. 

289 



William Sharp 

" Our shortest way was by Elvwick church- 
yard. Perhaps but for this we would not 
have thought of looking at our father's grave 
again : for we did not mean to return to Roe- 
hurst. Hand in hand, however, we stole to 
the spot we had already ceased to regard with 
the first overwhelming awe. 

" The shock was greater than even that of 
his death had been, for we saw that the grave 
had been rifled. The coffin was visible, but 
the lid had been forced open. There was no 
corpse within. Almost too dazed to be fright- 
ened, it was some time before I realised that 
the outrage must have been committed that 
very night; for the upturned earth had re- 
tained its fresh smell, an axe was lying near 
the grave, and there were imprints of feet in 
the damp soil. 

" The idea flashed across my mind that our 
father had somehow come to life again, — 
perhaps, I thought, he knew of our intended 
flight and had gone back to Roehurst to frus- 
trate it, — and I could scarce move with terror. 
Naomi laughed, a strange mirthless laugh that 
made me turn as though to strike her. Then, 
shivering and sobbing, we crawled away. I 
think we were about to return home, when a 
tall figure arose^ called us by our names, and 
invited us to come and see the merry * Dance 

290 



The Gypsy Christ 

of the Wolves ' around the camp-fire. I told 
the man — Mat Lee, I remember his name 
was — what had happened. To my surprise 
he did not appear shocked or frightened. He 
was silent for a little; then in a whisper he 
urged us to run with him at once, lest we 
should meet the dead man on his way back 
from the house to the grave. 

" That is how my sister and I went to live 
among our unknown kindred. The very next 
day, at dawn, the camp was lifted; a week 
thence we were in Brittany. It was not till 
long afterwards I learned that it was the 
tribesmen who had desecrated my father's 
grave. ' He had been a renegade, and the 
enemy of his race,' they said, * and it was only 
right that though he had lived in honour he 
should afterwards be flung back to earth as a 
dead dog is hurled among the bramble or 
gorse.' 

" Once, only, I saw my brother again. I 
know that he did his best for us. He traced 
our flight, and kept in touch with us. A 
* commando ' was sent to him, forbidding him 
to come near us, or even to go among his 
kindred anywhere. I was told I was free to 
go and come as I liked, and that I had money 
always at my command. Naomi, however, 
had to abide with the tribe. For three years 

291 



William Sharp 

I roamed throughout the lands east of Saxony 
and Bavaria, and as far south as Dalmatia 
and Roumania. I had been well educated, 
and was a student; and I learned much, 
though in my own desultory fashion. 

" Then tidings reached me that Jasper had 
disappeared. It was said that he had been 
seen in the shore-woods of Lymington, on the 
Solent; and that he had been drowned, 
while bathing or boating. An upturned 
boat had been discovered, in which he had 
certainly been that forenoon, for he had 
come in it from Yarmouth in the Isle of 
Wight. 

" I went to England, and in due time en- 
tered into possession of the family property. 
At first (and this was when we met in Surrey) 
I thought of settling there, for a time. At 
last, however, I decided to dispose of Roe- 
hurst, and realise everything that had come to 
me; and I had done this, and was about to 
leave for eastern Europe, when a letter 
reached me from Derbyshire. It was in my 
brother's handwriting, 

*' Bewildered, distraught, and angry, I read 
this strange and unlooked-for communication. 
The writer was alive, and begged me to come 
and save him from the enmity of the kindred 
with whom he had at the end cast in his lot. 

292 



1905 

new Tauchnitz vol. (The Sunset of Old 
Tales) and expect to complete it (for May) 
to-night. 

'' 24th April. . . . Yes, I was sorry to leave 
Lismore. It may be my last time in the Gaelic 
West. (I don't say this 'down-ly' — but be- 
cause I think it likely. There is much I want 
to do, and now as much by W. S. as by F. 
M. and that I realise must be done abroad 
where alone can I keep well and mentally 
even more than physically (How I hope 
Fontainebleau may some day suit us.) Dear 
MacC. was sorry to part to. He shook hands 
(with both his) and when I said in Gaelic 
* Good-bye, and Fare-well upon that, my 
friend,' he said, ' No — no ' — and then sud- 
denly said, ' My blessing on you — and good- 
bye now ! ' and turned away and went down 
the pier-side and hoisted the brown sail and 
went away across the water, waving a last 
farewell." 

The cold proved so disastrous that my hus- 
band was ordered to Neuenahr for special 
treatment. Thence he wrote to the Hon. A. 
Nelson Hood: 

June, 1905. 
My dear Julian, 
Just a brief line, for I am still very re- 

293 



William Sharp 

"An hour before dawn, three of the kin- 
dred entered the tent. They put a bandage 
about my eyes, and secured my arms. I heard 
them lift Jasper and put him upon a hurdle of 
larch-boughs. In the chill air we went si- 
lently forth. In about a quarter of an hour 
we came to a standstill upon a rising ground. 
I heard Jasper repeat in a husky voice that he 
was not worthy to be the Christ ; that he was 
not the Christ; and that he prayed that with 
him might pass away forever the curse of 
Kundry. 

" There was a brief silence after that ; then 
a rustling sound in the air; then, after an in- 
terval, a thud, thud, thudding, followed by a 
splash. 

*^ ' No man ever comes back from the bowels 
of the lead-mine, O James of the tribe of the 
Heron, of the race of Kundry,' whispered a 
voice in my ear. 

" When, an hour later, the bandage was 
taken from my eyes, I was on the moor just 
above the House o' Fanshawe. A boy was 
beside me, his face covered with a slouch hat. 
In a few words, in our ancient language, he 
told me that I was by the village of Eastrigg, 
and that twenty miles south of me lay Father- 
ing Dale, whence I could easily go in any di- 
rection; anywhere, he added significantly, 

294 



The Gypsy Christ 

where the tongue can be silent and the mem- 
ory dead. 

" I made no inquiries about the matter I 
have told you. Fortunately I had informed 
no one of the letter I had received. This let- 
ter I burned. But I ran a great risk by re- 
turning a few days later to Eastrigg. The 
reason was this: I had learned, from the 
papers to which my brother had alluded, the 
whole story of our doomed race, the race of 
Kundry; and I decided to try one more 
desperate hazard against Fate, for I could not 
be sure that Jasper's death would remove the 
Curse. In a word, I decided to make my 
home in this place where my ancestor and 
brother suffered such cruel deaths, and to die 
here; for I found in my papers an ancient 
prophecy, both in English and Romany, to 
the effect that when a woman of the race of 
Kundry would voluntarily sacrifice herself at 
the Hill of Calvary, or when a man of the race 
of Kundry would live and die at the place 
where one of his kindred had suffered for the 
Curse, the doom might be removed. 

" Thus it was that I became possessor of 
this strange ' House o' Fanshawe.' But I had 
something to do before I settled here. 

*' When everything that had to be done was 
done, I went abroad to seek my kindred, and 

295 



William Sharp 

more particularly my sister Naomi. Perhaps 
you guess my object. I had more hope 
of success, from the circumstance that 
Naomi was of a passionately enthusiastic 
nature; and that, of late, she had even 
dreamed of leaving her people (for one strain 
in her fought against the other) to enter a 
Sisterhood of Mercy. 

" But my people had gone, and the clues 
were already old and complicated. I went 
through Hungary, across Transylvania, hither 
and thither in Roumania, and from end to end 
in Dalmatia. Everywhere I was on their 
track, but the trail was confused. It was not 
till I had gained the Bavarian highlands that 
the conclusion was forced upon me I was 
being misled. This became a certainty after 
I had followed a sure trail through Suabia and 
so to the Lands of the Moselle. At Treves I 
was directed southward, and went blindly on 
a false track that led through southern France 
towards the Basque provinces; but at last, at 
a place in Provence called Aigues-Mortes, I 
met a life-brother (that is, one whose life had 
been saved when otherwise it would have been 
lost, and who has vowed his life-service to his 
saviour, whenever required), whom I put 
upon his oath. He told me that the Zengri, 
the Hemes, and two other tribes were not in 

296 



The Gypsy Christ 

southern Europe at all, but in England. I 
had hit upon the right trail between Heidel- 
berg and the Mosel, but, when almost upon my 
people at Treves, had been skilfully diverted. 
And the reason for this was the extraordinary 
ascendency of my sister. My heart sank as I 
heard this tidings. I feared that the Curse 
had already shown itself; but my informant 
assured me I was wrong in this surmise. It 
was merely that Naomi had fascinated the 
tribes- folk, and, particularly since the death of 
the old Peter Zengro, had become practically 
a queen. Her word was law. 

" Of course I could not tell the exact reason 
why she wished to evade me. Possibly she 
feared I might resent her ascendency, and 
try to usurp her ; possibly she had some rea- 
son to fear that the always latent enmity 
against any of the race of Kundry would be 
directed against me. As likely as not, she 
had several schemes to fulfil, all or even one 
of which might be frustrated by my appear- 
ance on the scene. 

" Nevertheless, I decided to travel straight 
to England, and, as soon as practicable, gain 
an interview with Naomi. 

'' For some weeks after I reached this 
country I was again purposely misled. Yet 
from one thing and another I became more 

297 



William Sharp 

and more anxious to meet Naomi soon. 
Strange rumours were abroad. At Ringwood 
in the New Forest, I overheard some words 
by the camp-fire (when I was supposed to be 
asleep) which made my heart shrink. 

*' Once again I lost all clue. Then it was 
that I remembered Nathan Lee^ — an intimate 
friend of yours as well as of mine, — who, 
because of his great love for his wife, had 
sworn never to leave the neighbourhood of 
Glory Woods, where she was buried. I trav- 
elled with all speed to Dorking. From Lee I 
learned what I wanted to know. By a 
strange fatality, Naomi had made her head- 
quarters in the Wood o' Wendray, beyond 
Eastrigg. But was it a blind fatality? That 
was what troubled and perturbed me. Why 
had she, why had our particular tribe, settled 
at the accursed spot where Jasper Fanshawe 
had met his fate? 

*' It was at this time that I met you in 
Glory Woods. The next day I was back in 
the village of Elvwick, and had arranged with 
Robert Hoare, the late gardener at Roehurst, 
and his wife, to come and keep house and 
generally look after me at Eastrigg Manor. 

" Almost every day after I was settled I 
rode over to the Wood o' Wendray; but the 
ban was upon me, and I was warned not to 

298 



The Gypsy Christ 

approach the camp. Thrice I set the ban at 
defiance, and strode into the camp, but on no 
occasion saw any sign of Naomi. This was 
the more strange, as, on the third time, I 
arrived at sunset, * the hour of the smoke,' 
when the gypsies meet round the fire to talk 
and smoke and break their long day-fast. It 
was after this third visit I was formally 
warned that my next defiance of the ban 
would be my last. I knew this to be no idle 
threat. Thereafter I had to be more cau- 
tious. I no longer rode across the moor; 
but, either in the morning twilight or in the 
late afternoon, wandered here and there 
across the uplands : sometimes by the deserted 
lead-mines, sometimes by the Green Pool, 
sometimes even within the outskirts of the 
Wood o' Wendray. 

" I met you in Glory Woods in the spring, 
and now it is autumn. It was exactly mid- 
way in this time that I learned a dreadful 
thing. 

" One day a message came to me, in Na- 
omi's writing, to be at the Green Pool beyond 
Dallaway mine at dawn on the morrow. 

'* I was there, of course. The morning 
was raw and misty. Even at the margin of 
the Pool I could not see the further side. 
Suddenly, however, I heard whispered voices 

299 



William Sharp 

and the trampling of feet. I called, and was 
at once answered. I was bidden not to stir 
from where I was. The voice was that of 
Naomi, but with a note in it I had never 
heard before. 

" ' Is that you, James Fanshawe, of the 
tribe of the Heron, of the race of Kundry? ' 

" ' It is I, Naomi, daughter of Gabriel. It 
is I, your blood-brother.' 

** * Then know this thing. She whom you 
wedded secretly, Sanpriella Zengro, is dead.' 

*' I gave a cry of pain. ... I have not told 
you that, during my last year with my people, 
I loved Sanpriella, the daughter of Alexander 
Zengro, the brother of Peter Zengro, of the 
First Tribe. But Alexander Zengro feared 
and hated any of the race of Kundry; so we 
loved secretly. This was one reason why I 
was so eager to find my people again; for 
Naomi was not, as you may have supposed, 
my one quest. I knew that Sanpriella was 
with child, and I longed to make her my wife 
before all men. 

" *Is it so ? ' I cried in a shaking voice, 
because of my sore pain ; ' is it so, upon the 
oath of the crossed sticks and the hidden 
way ? ' 

" * I say it. May tree fall on me, and 
water gain upon me, and the falling star light 

300 



The Gypsy Christ 

on me, if I speak not truth. Sanpriella is 
dead. She lies in the wood of Heiligenberg, 
beyond the Neckar. And now listen to the 
doom, thou son of Kundry/ 

" My heart leapt at these ominous words, 
doubly ominous and strange coming from one 
of my own blood. 

" * Unto Sanpriella were born twin children, 
a boy and a girl. The girl lives, though you 
shall never see her. She is in a far land 
from here, and the lines of her life are al- 
ready known. The boy . . . the boy is . . . 
dead. 

" * But know this thing, James, my blood- 
brother. The doom of Kundry was upon 
him. His mother hid the thing, but after her 
death the Curse was visible. Upon his hands 
were the bruised wounds of the nails of the 
Crucifixion.' 

" With a shuddering cry I sank to my 
knees. Wildly I prayed, implored Naomi to 
say it was not true ; that it was hearsay ; that 
some natural cause had been mistaken for 
this horrible mystery. 

" * Therefore,' she resumed unmoved, * the 
ban is upon you also. Take heed lest a worse 
thing befall you. It will be well if you leave 
this place where you live, and for ever. Be a 
wanderer upon the face of the earth; it will 

301 



William Sharp 

be for you safer so: but avoid the trail of 
the Children of the Wind as you would the 
pestilence. And now — farewell ! ' 

" * My child lives — my daughter lives ! ' I 
cried despairingly. 

" There was a long silence. I called again 
and again, but met with no response. Thick 
as the mist was, I raced round the Pool like a 
greyhound. There was no one near. I ran 
out upon the moor, but there I was like a 
derelict boat in wide ocean in a dense fog. I 
could see nothing, hear nothing. All that day 
the mist hung impermeable; all that day I 
abode where I was." 

Once more a long silence fell upon Fan- 
shawe. Outside, the shrieking of the wind 
was appalling. The rain slashed against the 
house as though all the sluices of the thunder-- 
storm were concentrated there. The thunder 
was no longer overhead, but a raucous blast — 
distinct from the blind, furious gale — moved 
to and fro like a beast of prey. I was over- 
come by the strange and terrible tale I had 
listened to. Then and there, to that wild ac- 
companiment, it all seemed deadly true, and 
as inevitable as Destiny. 

With an abrupt gesture, Fanshawe sud- 
denly resumed: — 

302 



The Gypsy Christ 

" On the eve of that day I walked swiftly 
across the moor. The sun was almost on the 
horizon as I reached the eastern edge of 
Grailph Moss. Suddenly, I stopped as one 
changed into stone. Black against the sunset- 
light I saw a tall figure stand; with head 
thrown back, and arms wide outstretched from 
the sides. Was it a vision of the Christ? 
That was the thought which came to me. 
Then the figure disappeared, absorbed in the 
mist over Grailph Moss. I turned and went 
home. It was Naomi I had seen. 

" The next evening I was in the same place, 
at the same hour. 

** Again I saw Naomi, in that sunflame 
Crucifixion. Once more she disappeared, and 
across the Moss. I knew of no encampment 
there, but unquestionably she had moved 
swiftly westward. 

" On the third afternoon I was there again, 
earlier. This time I had with me my white 
bloodhound. We crouched in good hiding 
till Naomi passed. I made Grailph sniff her 
track. When the sun set, she disappeared as 
before. I held Grailph in leash, and followed 
swiftly. In less than an hour I came upon 
her. She was standing in a waste place, near 
the centre of a broken circle of tall slabs. 
These were the Druidic Stones, known almost 

303 



William Sharp 

to none save the most daring explorers of the 
Moss, for they are in a region beset with 
quagmires. 

" She was speaking, with outstretched arms, 
as if in prayer. There was no one visible. 
She was, I saw, in a trance, or ecstacy. 

" When, suddenly, she descried me, she 
leapt like a deer on to a narrow dry path be- 
yond the stones. She would certainly have 
evaded me but for Grailph. The hound slid 
beyond like running water in a rapid. In less 
than a minute he had headed her off. 

" When I came up with her, I expected 
either furious denunciation, or at least a sum- 
mary command that I should return straight- 
way. She did no more than look at me in- 
tently, however. She had already forgotten 
what had lain between us. She was possessed. 

'' ' Naomi' I said simply. 

" * I am Naomi, blessed among women.' 

" I stared, perplexed. 

" ' Why do you follow me here to spy me 
out? Beware lest God strike thee for thy 
blasphemy.' 

'* ' My blasphemy, Naomi ? ' 

*' ' Even so. I come here to meet the spirit 
of God.' 

" ' Tell me, my sister, is this true what I 
have heard: that you are with child?' 

304 



The Gypsy Christ 

" Her eyes flamed upon me. But her voice 
was cold and quiet as she replied, — 

" ' It is true. The Lord hath wrought upon 
me a miracle. I have immaculately con- 
ceived, and the child I shall bear will be the 
Gypsy Christ, — the long dreamed-of , the long 
waited-for second Christ.' 

" ' This is madness. Come with me ; come 
home with me, Naomi.' 

" * The green earth is my home ; and the 
wind is my brother, and the dust my sister.' 

"'Come!' 

"Then in a moment her whole look and 
mien changed. The flame that was in her 
eyes seemed to come from her very body. 
Her voice now was loud, raucous, imperious. 
The hound whined, and sidled to my feet. 

" ' I am the Sister of Jesus, I am no other 
than Kundry, deathless in my woe until these 
last days. I am the Mother of the Christ 
that is to be. And you, you son of my 
mother's womb, you are ordained to be my 
prophet! Go forth even now: go unto our 
people in the woods : declare, declare, declare, 
to them, to all, that the Gypsy Christ cometh 
at last!' 

" I was shocked, terrified even. But after 
a throbbing silence I spoke, and firmly : 

*' ' This is madness, Naomi. Already the 

305 



i6 i 



William Sharp 

Curse IS heavy enough upon us. Do you not 
know that our brother Jasper was done to 
death yonder because of this doom of ours; 
that because of this awful malison on 
the race of Kundry . . . that . . . my little 
son. . . .' 

" * I know all, — what has been, what is, 
what shall be. Once more I ask you: will 
you be the prophet of the Gypsy Christ ? ' 
No, never, so help me God ! * 
This is the fourth day of this Week of 
the Miracle. To-morrow thou hast; and the 
day after; and yet again, another day. Re- 
pent while there is yet time. But if thou dost 
not repent, thine end shall be as that of thy 
dog. An awful sign shall be with thee this 
very night; yet another shall be with thee on 
the morrow; and on the third thou shalt re- 
ceive the message of the Cross. Then thou 
shalt waver no more, for whom all wavering 
is for ever past. And now, begone ! ' 

" Broken in spirit, I turned. When, a hun- 
dred yards thence, I looked back, there was 
no trace of Naomi anywhere. 

" That night I had the first sign." 

Here Fanshawe ceased for a moment, and 
wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with a 
hand tremulous as a reed. His voice had 
sunk into a dull monotony, to me dreadful. 

306 



The Gypsy Christ 

" On the day following, I had the second 
sign. Drops of blood oozed from the red 
figure of the Christ that you have seen in my 
room. Then you came. To-day I have had 
the message of the Cross. You saw it your- 
self : a green cross on the portal of the house. 

" Then at last my terror overmastered me. 
Also, I yet hoped to prevail with Naomi. 
Thus it was that when I left you abruptly this 
afternoon I rode across the moor to the Wood 
o' Wendray. I reached the camp, but only 
the ashes of dead fires were there. Yet I 
know my people wait, and Naomi has my life 
in the hollow of her hand." 

But here I broke in eagerly. 

" Come^ Fanshawe, come with me at once, 
the first thing to-morrow. You must not be 
here another day. It is madness for you to 
remain. Why, in another week you would 
persuade yourself that you too had inherited 
this so-called curse ! " 

"Look!'' he shouted, springing to his feet, 
tearing the coverings from his hands, and 
holding forth the palms to me, rigid, testify- 
ing, appalling: ''Look! Look! Look!'' 

And, as I live, I saw upon the hands the 
livid stigmata of the Passion! 

With a cry, I repelled him. A great horror 
seized me. But the next moment a greater 

307 



William Sharp 

pity vanquished my weakness. He had al- 
ready fallen. I took him in my arms, and 
laid him back on his chair. 

James Fanshawe was dead. 

For some minutes I stared, paralysed, upon 
the still face that had just been so wrought 
with a consuming frenzy. A deep awe came 
upon me. I crossed the room, threw back 
the window, and looked out. Grailph the 
hound was not there. Nor could he have 
been lurking near, for at that moment I saw 
a man glide swiftly across the yard, and dis- 
appear into the gloom. 

The rain was over, the thunder rumbled far 
across the moors; the wind, too, had veered, 
and I heard it crying like a lost thing in the 
deep ravine of the Gap. 

I stayed quietly beside my friend, keeping 
vigil till the dawn. While it was still dark, I 
went again to the window, and looked out. 
On the moor I could hear two larks singing 
at a great altitude. Doubtless they had soared 
to meet the dawnlight. 

I thought of Naomi, whose madness would 
surely bring upon her, and that soon, the 
awful ancestral doom. Yet of this I knew I 
should hear nothing. The Children of the 
Wind have a saying: The dog barks by day, 
and the fox by night ; but the Gypsy never lets 

308 



The Gypsy Christ 

any one know whence he comes, where he is, 
or whither he goes. 

Sometimes the horror of it all makes me 
long to look upon it as an evil dream. Has 
the dreadful Curse at last worked itself out? 
With a sudden terror, I remember at times 
that James Fanshawe had two children born 
to him. What of the girl? Did she, too, 
laugh when her kindred led Naomi to her 
doom? Even now doth she move swift and 
sure towards that day when she shall go quick 
with child ; when she or the child or the child's 
child shall arise and say, " Behold the Gypsy 
Christ has come at last ! " 



309 



The Lady in Hosea 



THE LADY IN HOSEA 



" And she shall follow after her lover, but she 
shall not overtake him; and she shall seek him, but 
shall not find him; then shall she say, I will go and 
return to my first husband; for then was it better 
with me than now ! " — Hosea. 

When John Dorian, with the help of the 
poker and the flaming coals, had demolished 
Dream No. liii. and last, he lit a cigar. Then 
he lay back in a deep, padded arm-chair, in 
order to enjoy to the full his evening paper. 

The eflfort had been exhausting. He was a 
sentimentalist, and had been wont to mark his 
love-letters, after they had reached the 
tenth, as '' Dream i.," " Dream ii.," and 
so on. True, he had not gone through the 
whole fifty-three that night. The little india- 
rubber bands which had been round Claire's 
letters lay beside the ash-tray on the mantel- 
piece, like an angler's heap of worms, dis- 
carded because of their premature death; but 
the pile could not have consisted of more than 
about a score and a half. As a matter of fact, 
Dreams xv. to xxi. had escaped the ruthless 

313 



William Sharp 

poker. Covered witli kisses, warmed with 
sighs, they had been cremated in the late days 
of June. They were — I should say had 
been — animated by aspirations of soul-union, 
assurances concerning Immortality, and per- 
fectly lucid and frank expositions of a vivid 
passion. In a word, they were so explicit 
that John Dorian had found himself forced 
to submit them to a double committal: first, 
to his heart (as he designated his memory), 
and then to the fire. Again, Dreams xlv. to 
LI. had, though autumnal, endured a like fate. 
True, they were without any remarks about 
Immortality; on the other hand, the union of 
mind, soul, and body, particularly the third 
partner in the trinity, was emphasised in them 
with ardour, eloquence, and a pleading 
yearning. 

By an accident, five missives from another 
lady had been tied up with those from Claire. 
These had been discovered one Sunday when, 
unwell with a chill, and brooding upon the 
immortality of a great passion, Dorian had 
permitted himself the dangerous luxury of a 
reperusal of his love-letters. Only skilled 
chefs should attempt pleasant surprises in the 
way of rechauffes. 

In the peaceful quiet of that Sabbath after- 
noon thirteen epistles had been done to death : 

314 



The Lady in Kosea 

seven, too passionate, from Claire; five, too 
financially exigent, from Mademoiselle Pha- 
lene. 

Thus it was that on this October night John 
Dorian, on demolishing the discarded raiment 
of his Dreams, confided to the appreciative se- 
crecy of his fire no more than four-and-thirty 
burning missives. The epithet is hyperbolical ; 
but there is no doubt about its actuality in 
the past participle. 

A few weeks ago '' Dream liii." would 
have meant to him no more than the fifty- 
third kiss he had received from Claire. It 
would have been simply a delightful link be- 
tween Ffty-two and Fifty-four. But when 
Liii. is indorsed '* and last,'' the number stands 
forth from its fellow-figures, the elect of 
Fate. 

An effort? Yes; it had been an effort to 
read through, latterly to glance at, those 
thirty-four remnants of an undying passion. 
Dorian had two small ivory figures by the 
sculptor Dampt. They ornamented his twin 
bookcases by the fireside; above the shelves 
to the right, " Aspiration,'' with upraised arms 
and trance-wrought face; above the shelves 
to the left," Consummation," supine, satisfied, 
with wearied eyes. 

He looked at the little group to the left, 

315 



William Sharp 

while Dream liii. emitted the unpleasant 
odour of waste paper aflame. He smiled un- 
wittingly, then, wittingly, sighed. Then he 
lit his cigar, seated himself, and leisurely un- 
folded the news-sheet. 

The " leader '* interested him. Half-way 
down the column on the ensuing page, " The 
Casket of Pandora," he read : ** The lover is 
ever a sophisticator." 

**True," he muttered indolently, while he 
stretched his feet nearer the fire-glow ; '' how 
true ! one sophisticates oneself with dreams of 
impossible virtues and charms.'' 

" Sophisticator ! " he resumed. " Let me 
see what the dictionary has to say, if there is 
such a word." 

With a slight effort he obtained the volume 
he sought from the swing-bookcase near his 
chain 

" Ah ! here we are : sophistical, sophisticate, 
sophisticator, H'm. . . . 'Sophisticator: one 
who adulterates, debases, or injures the purity 
of anything.' '' 

The dictionary must have become limp from 
long disuse, for in a few seconds it slipped 
to the floor, and lay there, unheeded, in a dead 
faint. 

A hunted look had come into John Dorian's 
eyes, but it passed. For some time he stared 

316 



The Lady in Hosea 

blankly into the fire. Then suddenly he re- 
sumed his perusal of the Quadrant Gazette, 

With a yawn, he skipped the " Casket of 
Pandora " column. " These paragraphists/* 
he muttered, *' either talk rubbish, or bore one 
with their rehashed hash." 

There was wind without. It came down 
the street, at times, blowing a loud clarion: a 
minute later it would swirl away again, with 
a rattling fanfaronade among the chimney- 
tops. Now and again a flurry of rain slapped 
the window-panes. 

It was certainly comfortable by the fire. 
Possibly it was sheer tampering with luxury 
that made Dorian rise and wander restlessly 
about the room. 

The rumble of the Piccadilly omnibuses out- 
side emphasised the cheerful quietude of the 
room. 

Its solitary occupant wavered between a 
cabinet in one corner filled with blue china, 
and in another corner, an escritoire. This 
lured him. He seated himself in front of it, 
opened a drawer, and, taking out and unfold- 
ing a diary, glanced at page after page. An 
entry in August arrested his attention. 

"August 21. — Still here at Llandllnys. Did not 
leave on Monday, as Cecil T. was summoned to 
Chester on some magisterial matter. He expected 

317 



William Sharp 

to be back that night, but wired that he would be 
detained two or three days, and hoped I would pro- 
long my stay. I did. Claire brought me the mes- 
sage. Her eyes were lovely. She knew I would 
stop. What days these have been! Never, never, 
shall I forget them! What a deep joy it is that 
she and I are so absolutely one with the other! To 
think of it: she, Claire; I, John Dorian, at one for 
ever and ever! There can be no end to a passion 
such as ours. It is the nobler, the stronger, be- 
cause of our great renunciation. Neither she nor 
I will leave Cecil Trevor a mourner. Indeed, it 
would be cruel if, having by undreamed-of hazard 
taken royal possession of his wife's heart, I should 
also break up his home by removing her to another 
clime as my wife. No, we will be strong. Love has 
been compassionate, and given each unto each. 
What need to go to the last extremity? — a bitter one 
at the best. No; there will be no elopement. But 
I am hers and she is mine in life and death. Ah, 
Death! No! no! no death for us! For all eternity 
our love shall endure. She and I, I and she, to- 
gether for ever and ever." 

Dorian closed the diary with a snap. 
Rising, he replaced the book, and then walked 
slowly to the window. He drew back the 
blind. The cloud-rack was broken for an 
interval; overhead, like dark frozen water 
between ice-banks, he could see a width of 
sky. A planet, a score or more of stars, 
glistered icily. 

'' For all eternity," he muttered ; " I and 

318 



The Lady in Hosea 

she, she and I, for ever and ever." For a 
few minutes he was silent, motionless, pro- 
foundly intent. Then he smiled. 

'* Ah, I was always a star-gazer ! " 

With that he went back to his chair in 
front of the fire, took up a new magazine in 
lieu of the newspaper, and made ready to 
enjoy himself. 

Doubtless he would have succeeded, but 
fate willed otherwise. The tap of a postman 
was the particular disguise taken by Nemesis. 

" A letter for you, sir,'' said his man, hold- 
ing out a salver on which lay a business-look- 
ing envelope. 

" H'm. Just wait a moment, George. Ah ! 
— ah ! it's from Anderson and Anderson. . . . 
George, are you there ? " 

"Yes, sir." 

" George, if a lady should call for me to- 
night or to-morrow, you are to tell her I am 
not here. Say — oh ! let me see — that she is 
just too late; that I left this morning for 
Paris, en route for the East. Tell her I 
won't be back again for years." 

** If she wants me to take or send you any 
message ? " 

" In that case tell her that you will cere- 
tainly do so; only, add that it had better not 
be urgent, as you don't expect to join me in 

319 



William Sharp 

the East till after I telegraph to you from — 
let us say Egypt." 

" Very good, sir." 

The man hesitated, fidgeted, but thought 
better of his intent, whatever it was. As soon 
as he had gone Dorian eagerly scanned the 
note he had received. It was from a firm of 
solicitors, and was to the effect that it was 
true Mrs. Cecil Trevor had left her home ; 
that she had called to ask his, John Dorian's, 
address ; and that to-morrow if not to-day, or 
the day after if not to-morrow, she would 
certainly obtain it from some one. 

It is a common mistake to say that Nemesis 
never blunders. That policeman of the gods 
can, and does, sometimes appear on the scene 
too soon, or too late, or otherwise inoppor- 
tunely. He came down Piccadilly a second 
time this evening, disguised this time as Claire 
Trevor. 

Dorian was half-way through his second 
cigar when he heard a hansom stop beneath 
his windows. This was followed by a tap at 
the front door. To the tap succeeded the 
opening of the door; then a sustained con- 
versation. 

" I am no coward," said John Dorian, " but 
I will retire — ah ! — to the bathroom ! " 



320 



The Lady in Hosea 

II 

Mrs. Trevor, as she sat before the fire in 
her room in the Whitehall Hotel, did not 
know whether to laugh or cry. This was not 
because she was either amused or chagrined, 
but because she believed her heart was broken. 
There are women, as there are men, who, 
fronting irredeemable disaster, with a heart 
almost callous on account of its pain, scarce 
know whether laughter or sobs shall best ease 
them. 

Claire Trevor had taken the step which ex- 
perience tells should never be taken: that is, 
she had burned the ship of her married life. 
All manner of misadventure may be wrought 
against that vessel, but it should never be 
burned; at least, not until another has been 
boarded by invitation, and a licence as first 
mate duly obtained. In other words, she had 
not only left her home and husband, but had 
also been rash enough to leave a letter behind 
her for Cecil Trevor. It told him that she 
loved, and was loved by, John Dorian; that 
she could not live without the said John, and 
that it would be criminal on her part to re- 
main a day longer with him, Cecil, as his wife. 
Lest there should be any mistake, she had 
added a few particulars. 

321 



William Sharp 

She had no children. She did not love 
Cecil Trevor: but she had not suspected this 
until — well ! The suspicion developed into a 
fact when, after a few months' acquaintance- 
ship, John Dorian read her his two-act play. 
For Better, for Worse, At the moving senti- 
mentality which did duty as a dramatic close, 
he had informed her that she was the heroine, 
Helen, and he Paris, the hero. 

In the process she lost a few ideals. These 
are seldom missed at first, and it was some 
time before she realised that they were gone. 
She sighed, with true feeling, but said to her- 
self that she would be brave. 

One idea, however, she did hold, not only 
dear and intimate, but inviolate. This was 
the chivalrous love, the unalterable devotion, 
of John Dorian. 

It had not been without difficulty that she 
obtained his new address. Circumstances had 
kept them apart for three months, and in that 
time he had shifted his quarters more than 
once. 

For a woman without much intuition, it is 
to her credit that she was not only unde- 
ceived by the instructed lie of Dorian's valet, 
but at once guessed that her lover wanted 
" Finis " to be written to their romance. She 
had little imagination, and she did not under- 

322 



The Lady in Ho sea 

stand how this finality could be ; but she felt 
it in the very core of her heart. The tragi- 
comedy had fizzled out while, having left 
without an attempt to expostulate with, or 
even force an interview upon, her lover, she 
drove back to her hotel. 

For a long time she had stared into the fire, 
till her eyes ached. At last she rose, and took 
two photographs from her leather-covered 
desk. The insolent light of the gas flamed 
upon her. By a vague instinct she turned it 
lower, and also avoided a glimpse of herself 
in the adjacent mirror. 

There was ample light to see the photo- 
graphs by. One was of a man about five-and- 
thirty, tall, elegant, graceful even, evidently 
dark, with oval dusky eyes, short hair with a 
wave in it at the sides, clean contours, a 
sensitive nose and mouth, a self-conscious 
smile on the face, the hands artistic, but with 
the thumbs noticeably lifted backward. A 
good-looking man of the world, in most judg- 
ments, no doubt. To a close and keen ob- 
server everything, from the thumbs to the 
pointed ears, betokened the refined and cul- 
tured animal which had the arrogance to 
believe that it was kin to Apollo, and the 
blindness not to see that it was of the brother- 
hood of Pan the Satyr. All the possibilities 

323 



William Sharp 

of the epileptic slept in that comely exterior. 
The life in him was phosphorescent fungus in 
a grave. 

Mrs. Trevor took the ordinary view. The 
photograph pained her by its tantalising truth. 
Long and earnestly as she looked at it, she 
stared longer and more intently at the other. 
It represented a young woman who could not 
have passed her twenty-seventh year; blonde, 
with a graceful figure. That, really, was all 
you or I might discern were we to come upon 
the likeness in an album. Claire Trevor, 
however, saw more. She evoked a woman 
whose tender heart gave a lovely life to the 
blue eyes, an exquisite, unwhispered whisper 
to the lips. She saw the rippling fair hair 
moving in the warm breath of her lover. 
Within, she beheld a strong and heroic mind 
fronting the Shadow of Fate — an undaunted, 
unselfish, greatly daring Soul. As a matter 
of fact, what she saw were merely some rain- 
bow shimmerings from a land where she had 
never fared. A great number of other peo- 
ple's thoughts occupied almost every avail- 
able cell in her brain, and the accommodation 
for her own mind was almost as limited as 
that dusty back-parlour wherein her soul 
(without a capital) lay bedridden and blind. 

The past tense should have been more em- 

324 



The Lady in Hosea 

phasised. Probably that evening a few more 
cells had been opened, and others summarily 
usurped by tyrannical new-comers. As for 
the invalid in the back-parlour, it had doubt- 
less risen, and was fumbling about in the 
dark. 

When Mrs. Trevor seated herself again, she 
took Dorian's photograph and laid it between 
two coals which glowed vehemently, despite 
the corroding ash at their base. The card 
crackled, shrivelled, and became a malodorous 
nonentity. A minute or two elapsed before 
Claire's photograph was likewise cremated. 
It fell sideways, and in the spurt of redeeming 
flame she read the date of the night when she 
had given herself to John Dorian — a night 
which had succeeded an evening of singular 
beauty, wherein the stars moved with a polar 
magnificence of light, and yielded in glory 
only to the promise of eternity which the un- 
controlled passion of two hearts discerned in 
the frosty indifference of those remote lu- 
minaries. 

Even a cremated passion does not add fuel 
to a fire. Perhaps the fire resents the in- 
trusion of a quenclied flame, particularly if it, 
too, has been slowly dying. At any rate, the 
photographs of two aspirants for immortality 
ended in smoke. To expedite the burial Mrs. 

325 



William Sharp 

Trevor stooped, to utilise the poker. As she 
reached forward, a locket swung from her 
bosom, struck the mantelpiece, and hung open, 
its two sides outspread, as though it were a 
metallic butterfly, the emblem of hope. 

She relinquished her intention, though as a 
matter of fact the service of the poker was 
not now needed. 

Instead, she sat back and stared at the 
miniature in the locket. It was an excellent 
likeness of Cecil Trevor. Looking at it, she 
could see every feature of her husband: his 
rather furrowed brow, fairly well marked; 
his heavy eyebrows and calm hazel eyes; his 
heavy, straight nose, with its rigid nostrils; 
his slightly curly brown beard, unbroken from 
the ear-level, and in the vogue of Henry VIII, 
his large, ill- formed, but kindly mouth; his 
coarse jowl and dogged chin. She knew that 
he was taller than the broad squire suggested 
in the miniature, and also that his voice was 
softer than a stranger would infer. And as 
she looked she believed she saw something in 
the eyes she had never seen before. 

With a cry she rose, then sank to her knees 
and hid her face in her hands, while her hair 
swept the chair like a creeper over a ruin. 

The fire had almost subsided into ash when 
she arose and slowly began to undress. She 
pondered the advisability of a prayer, but, on 

326 



The Lady in Hosea 

second thoughts, decided not to intrude her- 
self just then on an offended and probably 
resentful Providence. There would be ample 
time on the morrow, when she would feel 
more purged of her sin. 

*' I will go back," she whispered to herself. 
She lay down in the vague discomfort of a 
new loneliness. " I will go back. Perhaps 
he will forgive ; perhaps he will let me atone ; 
perhaps he loves me still." 

The invalid inmate of the back-parlour 
murmured indistinctly, ** Oh, what a fool, 
what a fool you have been ! " 

III 

When Claire Trevor reached the station for 
Llandllnys, it was to learn that she was a 
widow. 

During the long drive she wept sincerely 
for her resurrected affection, so untimely 
slain. 

Did Cecil know all? Do the dead see, un- 
derstand? The thought troubled her; but she 
did not disguise from herself that she was 
more anxious as to how much he knew when 
he was alive. 

*' Death, the result of an accident in the 
hunting-field." That was what she had been 
told. The accident had occurred in the after- 
noon of the morning when she had taken her 

327 



William Sharp 

fatal step. There was just a chance Mr. 
Trevor had not seen the insensate letter she 
had written. 

That drive aged Mrs. Trevor. She felt as 
though she were driving away from her youth. 

At the threshold of her home — if it still 
was her home — she was met by the vicar. 
His manner was deeply sympathetic and con- 
siderate — so considerate that she inferred 
safety so far. The vicar's profound respect 
indicated her acceptance in his eyes as the 
heiress of Llandllnys. 

Claire Trevor never quite forgave herself 
because when she looked upon the corpse of 
her husband she saw only, thought of only, 
dreaded only, the letter he held in his folded 
hands. 

" What does it mean ? " she whispered 
hoarsely to Mr. Barnby. 

'' Your last letter," the vicar replied with 
tender unction. " It was brought to him be- 
fore the end by the servant, who had forgot- 
ten to deliver it before his master went out 
riding. He was too weak to open it. He 
kissed it just before he died. When he 
pressed it against his heart, the heart had al- 
ready stopped. Take it, my dear madam, 
take it; it will be a lovely memento for you 
for the rest of your life." 

328 



PART III 

Ecce Puella 

and Other Prose 

Imaginings 



To The Woman of Thirty 



ECCE PUELLA 

"A Dream of Fair Women: Every man dreams 
this dream. With some it happens early in the teens. 
It fades, with some, during the twenties. With 
others it endures, vivid and beautiful under grey 
hairs, till it glorifies the grave."— H. P. Siwaarmill. 



The beauty of women: could there be any 
theme more inspiring? There is fire in the 
phrase even. But, as with Love, Life, Death, 
the subject at once allures and evades one. It 
would be easier to write concerning it a bulky 
tome than a small volume, and that again 
would be less difficult than a sketch of this 
kind. Who can say much about love, with- 
out vain repetitions? Only the poet — 
whether he use pigments or clay, words or 
music — can flash upon us some new light, or 
thrill us with some new note, or delight us 
with some new vision. There is nothing be- 
tween this quintessential revelation and that 
unaccomplished and for ever to be unaccom- 
plished History of Love which Charles No- 
dier said would be the history of humanity 
and the most beautiful book to write. 

333 



William Sharp 

What mortal can say enough about the 
beauty of woman to satisfy himself? How 
much less can he say enough to satisfy others ? 

'' For several virtues have I liked several 
women " : and we may adapt Shakespeare's 
line, and say that for several kinds of beauty 
have men admired women as different from 
each other as a contadina of the Campagna 
and an Eskimo Squaw. 

I realise my inadequacy. I would have 
my readers understand that if I were to 
write as I feel, I would speak not wisely but 
too well! Fortunately, I cannot rhapsodise: 
but for this, I might win honour in the eyes 
of ladies, and concurrently a very natural out- 
pouring of envy and all uncharitableness on 
the part of my fellow-men. Personally, I 
would have no hard-and-fast dogmas. Fair 
women, be they tall or short, dark or 
fair, vivacious or languorous, active or in- 
dolent, plump or fragile, if all are beautiful 
all are welcome. You, camerado, may in- 
cline towards a blonde, with hair touched 
with gold and eyes haunted by a living 
memory of the sky, small of stature, and 
with hands seductively white and delicate: I, 
on the other hand, may prefer a brunette, 
with hair lovely with the dusk and fragrance 
of twilight, with eyes filled with strange 

334 



Ecce Puella 

lights and depths of shadow, tall, lissom, and 
with the nut-brown kisses of the sun just 
visible on cheek and neck, and bonnie deft 
hands. Or, it may be^ I find Ideala in a sweet 
comeliness: a face and figure and mien and 
manner which together allure a male mind 
searching for the quietudes rather than for 
the exaltations of passionate life. You, how- 
ever, may worship at another shrine, and seek 
your joy in austere beauty, or in that which 
seems wedded to a tragic significance, or that 
whose very remoteness lays upon you an irre- 
sistible spell. There be those who prefer 
Diana to Venus, who would live with 
Minerva rather than Juno : who would rather 
espouse Syrinx than Semele, and prefer the 
shy Arethusa to the somewhat heedless Leda. 
Who shall blame a man if he would rather 
take to wife Lucy Desborough than Helen of 
Troy: and has any one among us right to 
lift a stone against him who would bestow 
the " Mrs." at his disposal upon Dolly Var- 
den rather than upon Cleopatra? 

After all, are the poets and painters the 
right people to go to for instruction as to 
beauty? Most of them are disappointed mar- 
ried men. Every man loves three females: 
woman (that is, his particular woman), as he 
imagines her to be; woman, as he finds her; 

335 



William Sharp 

and woman, carefully revised for an improb- 
able new edition. 

II 

In the beginning, said a Persian poet, Allah 
took a rose, a lily, a dove, a serpent, a little 
honey, a Dead Sea apple, and a handful of 
clay. When He looked at the amalgam it 
was Woman. Then He thought He would 
resolve these constituents. But it was too 
late. Adam had taken her to wife, and hu- 
manity had begun. Woman, moreover, had 
learned her first lesson: conveyed in the 
parable of the rib. Thus early did the male 
imagination begin to weave a delightful web 
for its own delectation and advantage. 
When, after a time, the daughters of Eve con- 
vinced the sons of Adam that a system of 
Dual Control would have to be put into effect, 
there was much questioning and heartburn- 
ing. Satan availed himself of the oppor- 
tunity. He took man aside, and explained to 
him that woman had been reasonless and pre- 
cipitate, that she had tempted him before she 
was ripe, and that he was a genial innocent 
and very much to be pitied. Further, he 
demonstrated that if she had only waited a 
little, all would have been well. But, as it 
was, the rose had a thorn, the lily had a ten- 

336 



Ecce Puella 

dency to be fragile, the dove had not lost its 
timidity, the serpent had retained its guile, its 
fangs, and its poison, the honey was apt to 
dog, the Dead Sea apple was almost entirely 
filled with dust, and the clay was of the tough, 
primeval kind, difficult to blend with advan- 
tage, and impossible to eliminate. 

From that day, says the Persian poet, 
whose name I have forgotten, man has been 
haunted by the idea that he was wheedled 
into a copartnery. In a word, having taken 
woman to wife, he now regrets that he com- 
mitted himself quite so early to a formal 
union. From his vague regrets and un- 
satisfied longings, and a profound egotism 
which got into his system during his bachelor 
days in Eden, he evolved the idea of Beauty. 
This idea would have remained a dream if 
Satan had not interfered with the sugges- 
tion that it was too good to be wasted as an 
abstraction. So the idea came to be realised. 
There was much hearty laughter in conse- 
quence, in *' another place." Seeing what a 
perilous state man had brought himself into, 
Allah had pity. He took man's conception 
of Beauty — which to His surprise was in 
several respects much superior to Eve — and, 
having dissipated it with a breath, rewove it 
into a hundred lovely ideals. Then, making 

337 



William Sharp 

of the residue a many-coloured span in the 
heavens, He sent these back to Earth, each to 
gleam thenceforth with the glory of that first 
rainbow. 

It is a fantasy. But let us thank that 
Eastern poet. Perhaps^ poor dreamer, he 
went home to learn that unpunctual spouses 
must expect reproaches in lieu of dinner, or 
even, it may be, to find that his soul's Sul- 
tana had eloped with a more worldly admirer 
of Eve. Zuleika, if he found her, perhaps he 
convinced. For us he has put into words, 
with some prolixity and awkwardness no 
doubt, what in a vague way we all feel about 
the beauty of women. 

For in truth there is no such abstraction 
as Womanly Beauty. Instead, there is the 
beauty of women. 

Every man can pick and choose. There 
are as many kinds of women as there are of 
flowers: and all are beautiful, for some 
quality, or by association. It is well to ad- 
mire every type. Companionship with the in- 
dividual will thus be rendered more pleasing! 
As the late Maxime du Camp said some- 
where : " In the matter of admiration, it is 
not bad to have several maladies." There are 
men who, in this way, are chronic invalids. 
Women are very patient with them. 

338 



Ecce Puella 

I do not agree with an acquaintance of 
mine who avers that his predilections are 
climatic in their nature. If he is in Italy he 
loves the Roman contadina, or the Sicilian 
with the lissom Greek figure; if in Spain, he 
thinks flashing black eyes and coarse hair finer 
than the flax and sky-blue he admired so 
much in Germany; if in Japan, he vows with 
Pierre Loti that Madame Chrysantheme is 
more winsome than the daintiest Parisienne; 
if in Barbary, he forgets the wild-rose bloom 
and hillwind freshness of the English girl, 
whom, when he roams through Britain, he 
makes the Helen to his Paris, forgets for the 
sake of shadowy gazelle-eyes, for languorous 
beauty like that of the lotus on warm 
moonlight nights. I wonder where he is 
now. He has been in many lands. I know 
he has loved a Lithuanian, and passioned for 
a Swede: and when I last saw him, less than 
a year ago, he said his ideal was a Celtic 
maighdeann. Perhaps he is far distant, in 
that very Cathay which I remember his say- 
ing was a country to be taken on trust, as 
one accepts the actuality of the North Pole: 
if so, I am convinced he is humming blithely 



" She whom I love at present is in China 
She dwells, with her aged parents, 

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William Sharp 

In a tower of fine porcelain, 

By the yellow stream where the cormorants are." * 

This is too generously eclectic for me, who 
am a lover of moderation, and a monogamist 
by instinct. Nevertheless, I can appreciate 
this climatic variability. I am no stickler for 
the supremacy of any one type, of the civilised 
over the barbaric, of the deftly arrayed over 
the austerely ungarbed ! With one of the au- 
thors of Le Croix de Berny I can say: 
** Dress has very little weight with me. I 
once admired a Granada gipsy whose sole cos- 
tume consisted of blue slippers and a neck- 
lace of amber beads." 

Nowadays, we have to admire the nude only 
in sculpture, and that antique. M. Berenger 
in Paris, Mr. Horsley, R. A., and a Glasgow 
bailie have said so. 

Well, well, it may be so. But there are un- 
regenerate men among us. Perhaps this new 
madness of blindness will supersede the old 
intoxication. Truly, I am 

" Oft in doubt whether at all 
I shall again see Phoebus in the morning, 
Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream — *' 

* '' Celle que faime a present, est en Chine; 
Elle demeiire, avec ses vieux parents, 
Dans une tour de porcelaine Une, 
Au iieuve jaune ou sont les cormorans" 

(Theophile Gautier.) 

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Ecce Puella 

but I have no doubt whatever that others will. 
Meanwhile we can dream of youth : the youth 
of the past, the eternal youth, and the hour- 
long youth we have known ourselves. It is 
one of the sunbright words. These five let- 
ters have an alchemy that can transmute dust 
and ashes into blossoms and fruit. For those 
who know this, the beauty of the past is 
linked to the present tense: the most ancient 
things live again, and the more keenly. Anti^ 
qiiitas scBCiili inventus miindi. 

Well, sufficient unto this present is the ques- 
tion of the nude ! Let those who will, ignore 
it. Whatever these may say, there is always 
this conviction for loyal Pagans to fall back 
upon — in the words of George Meredith — 
" the visible fair form of a woman is heredi- 
tary queen of us." 



Ill 

What a blight upon ordered sequence in 
narrative, phrase dear to the grammarian, dis- 
cursiveness is! Yet I cannot help it: to bor- 
row from George Meredith on the subject of 
fair women, from Lucy Desborough and 
Rhoda Fleming to Clotilde von Riidiger and 
Diana Warwick and Aminta Ormont, is as 
seductive as the sound of the sea when one 

341 



William Sharp 

is panting on the inland side of a sand-dune. 
In sheer self-defence I must find an apothegm 
so good that it would be superfluous to go 
further. This is irrational perhaps : but then 
with Diana I find that " to be pointedly ra- 
tional is a greater difficulty to me than a fine 
delirium." There are Fair Women, and fair 
sayings about fair women, in each of these 
ever delightful twelve novels. Epigram- 
matically^ The Egoist and Beauchamp's Ca- 
reer would probably afford most spoil to the 
hunter: but here in Richard Feverel is the 
quintessential phrase for which we wait. 
*' Each woman is Eve throughout the ages/' 

This might be the motto for every Passion- 
ate Pilgrim. For, truly, to every lover the 
woman of his choice is another Eve. He sees 
in her the ideal prototype. It is well that this 
is so: otherwise there would be no poetry, no 
fiction, and scarce any emotional literature 
save passionate Malthusian tractates ! 

But now let me be frank. Out of all the 
pictured fair women I have ever seen is there 
one who has embodied my ideal of womanly 
beauty? This is a question that most of us 
put to ourselves, with the same apparent ar- 
rogance, as if any one individual's opinion 
had the least value for others, or had any- 
thing to do with the Beauty of Woman. 

342 



Ecce Puella 

No. Though, in pictures, I have seen a 
few beautiful, and many lovely, and scores of 
comely and handsome women, in no instance 
did I encounter one of whom in any conceiv- 
able circumstances I could say '" There: she is 
my Eve, p?,st, oresent, and for ever ! " 

''- 1 am always waiting," wrote Amiel, " for 
the woman and the work which shall be 
capable of taking entire possession of my 
soul, and of becoming my end and aim.'* 
Yes, with Stendhal, we all wait : and one man 
in a million is rewarded with " the woman," 
to one man in a generation comes " the work." 

What is wanting? Must the glow of per- 
sonal romance be present before a beautiful 
woman can embody for us the Beauty of 
Woman ? 

"Araminta's grand and shrili, 
Delia's passionate and fra?l, 
Doris drives an earnest quill, 
Athanasia takes the veil; 
Wiser Phyllis o'er her pail, 
At the heart of all romance 
Reading, sings to Strephon's flail, 
' Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.' " 

Cannot Araminta and Delia be beautiful, 
though Strephon may prefer Phyllis? Or is 
beauty in women as incalculable a quantity as 
the delight men take in women's names? 

343 



William Sharp 

There are names that stir one like a trumpet, 
or like the sound of the sea, or like the ripple 
of leaves: names that have the magic of 
moonlight in them, that are sirens whose 
witchery can in a moment enslave us. What 
good to give here this or that sweet name: 
each man has in him his own necromancy 
wherewith to conjure up vague but haunting- 
sweet visions. Equally, if all Fair Women 
of the Imagination or of Life have names we 
love, there are designations that seem like 
sacrilege^ that grate, that excruciate. There 
is a deep truth in Balzac's insistence on the 
correspondence between character and no- 
menclature. Still, there are many debatable 
names. " Anna," for example, is not offen- 
sive, yet I " cannot away with it," though 
tolerant of " Annie." But hear what Mr. 
Henley has to say: — 

'* Brown is for Lalage, Jones for Lelia, 

Robinson's bosom for Beatrice glows, 

Smith is a Hamlet before Ophelia. 

The glamour stays if the reason goes: 

Every lover the years disclose 

Is of a beautiful name made free. 

One befriends, and all others are foes : 

Anna's the name of names for me ! " 
♦ * * * 

"Fie upon Caroline, Jane, Amelia — 
These I reckon the essence of prose ! — 

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Ecce Puella 

Mystical Magdalen, cold Cornelia, 
Adelaide's attitudes, Mopsa's mowes, 
Maud's magnificence, Totty's toes. 
Poll and Bet with their twang of the sea, 
Nell's impertinence, Pamela's woes! 
Anna's the name of names for me. 

But to return: everywhere pictured Ideala 
has evaded me. It has been a vain quest, 
though again and again I have caught just a 
glimpse of her, a vanishing gleam, a fugitive 
glance. The other day I was startled by the 
sudden light in the face of Hoppner's '\ Mir- 
anda,'' though when I looked again I was 
no more than haunted by an impalpable sug- 
gestion. In the beauty of the flowing dra- 
pery, in the breadth of that sea frothing at 
her feet, somewhere there was an evanescent 
grace which belonged to Ideala. Yet it was 
not quite hers after all, any more than the 
indwelling beauty, seen perhaps only for a 
moment, in the eyes, or revealed in a momen- 
tary light upon the face, was hers — the 
beauty, the momentary light in Miranda, in 
the gipsy-beauty of her of the Snake in the 
Grass J in one or two other portraits of a more 
delicately refined loveliness, or of the higher 
beauty, that of the beautiful mind visible 
through the fair mask of the flesh. Long 
ago, says Thoreau in Walden, " I lost a 

345 



William Sharp 

hound, a bay-horse, and a turtle dove, and am 
still on their trail." I think She whom we 
seek rides afar on that fleet horse, espied 
for ever by that flying dove, for ever pur- 
sued by that tireless hound. 

No doubt it is absurd to expect to find 
Ideala, even among portraits of women who 
may have been her kindred in the eyes of 
one or two persons, who could discern not 
only the outward beauty, but the inner radi- 
ance. Moreover, the company is commonly 
not that amid which one would pursue one's 
quest. Diane de Poitiers, Nell Gwynne, Mrs. 
Jane Middleton, the Countess of Grammont, 
the Comtesse de Parabere, ** Perdita,'' Lady 
Hamilton^ Mile. Hillsberg, Lady Ellenbor- 
ough, Mrs. Grace Dalrymple Elliot, and 
Elizabeth Foster, Duchess of Devonshire, 
were one and all charming as well as beauti- 
ful women. But presumably Charles did not 
discern his soul's counterpart in Nell Gwynne, 
nor the Regent Philippe in " la belle Para- 
bere," nor the amorous George in " Perdita," 
nor either Prince Schwartzenberg or the 
Arab Sheik in Lady Ellenborough. 

In order to judge, one must know. We, 
who do not know these Fair Women of the 
past, cannot judge. We must each seek an 
Ideala of our own. After all, as some one 

346 



Ecce Puella 

has said, women are like melons: it is only 
after having tasted them that we know 
whether they are good or not. 

We must be content with some one short 
of Perfecta. Unequal unions are deplorable. 
Moreover, it is very unsatisfactory to emulate 
the example of the celebrated Parisian hon- 
quineur, who worried through life without a 
copy of Virgil, because he could not succeed 
in finding the ideal Virgil of his dreams. 
Ideala is as the wind that cometh and goeth 
where it listeth. Rather, she may be likened 
to the Wind for ever fleeting along " that 
nameless but always discoverable road which 
leads the wayfarer to the forest of beautiful 
dreams." 

Moreover, She may appear anywhere, at 
any time. Remember Campion's *' She's not 
to one form tied." Possibly, even, she may 
be called Nell Gwynne; for to every Nell 
there will be a lover to whom she will be 
Helen. 

" Helen, thy beauty is to me 

Like those Nicean barks of yore, 
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, 
The weary, wayworn wanderer bore 
To his own native shore. 

"Lo! in yon brilliant window niche, 
How statue-like I see thee stand, 

347 



William Sharp 

The agate lamp within thy hand! 
Ah, Psyche, from the regions whiclr 
Are Holy Land ! " 



It is a pity that where a Helen is so evident 
to one passionate pilgrim, she should be 
merely Nell to the world in general. But so 
it is; and, alas! the very last person to per- 
ceive the connection with Psyche is often 
Nell herself. Poets get little gratitude, as 
a rule, for the glorification they effect. Poor 
bards ! they are apt to address as Ideala those 
who would rather be called Nell, and dedicate 
their deepest life-music to a mistress who, 
while flattered, really understands neither 
the poetry nor the poet, and can be more 
eloquent over a gift of gloves than over a 
work of genius. Thus hath it ever been; 
doubtless thus it shall continue. As long as 
there are fair women, there will be strong 
men ready to lose their highest heritage for 
a mess of pottage. As among the innumer- 
able kinds of flowers where the bee may roam 
and gather honey there is that flower of 
Trebizond whose fatal blooms allure the un- 
witting insect to madness or death, so among 
women there are some who irresponsibly lure 
men to sure calamity. Who was the man 
who said that fair women are fair demons 

348 



Ecce Puella 

who make us enter hell through the door of 
paradise? Doubtless he loved a flower of 
Trebizond. Idealists, ponder! 

Nevertheless, though we would not nat- 
urally seek Ideala among the Nell Gwynnes, 
it would be a mistake to rise to the high 
remote air where dwell the saints who have 
not yet transcended mortality. A touch of 
sin must be in that man whom we hail as 
brother, that women we greet as sister. 
There was shrewd worldly wisdom in the re- 
mark of a French prince, that, however 
virtuous a woman may be, a compliment on 
her virtue is what gives her the least pleas- 
ure. Concurrently we may take that in- 
structive passage in Cunningham's British 
Painters where we learn how Hoppner com- 
plained of the painted ladies of Sir Thomas 
Lawrence ; that they showed " a gaudy dis- 
soluteness of taste, and sometimes trespassed 
on moral as well as professional chastity," 
while by implication he claimed for his own 
portraits purity of look as well as purity of 
style : with this result — " Nor is it the least 
curious part of this story, that the ladies, 
from the moment of the sarcasm of Hopp- 
ner, instead of crowding to the easel of him 
who dealt in the loveliness of virtue, showed 
a growing preference for the rival who 

349 



William Sharp 

* trespassed on moral as well as on profes- 
sional chastity.' '' 

Women should not be wroth with men be- 
cause that each male, sound of heart and 
brain, is a Ponce de Leon. Parenthetically, 
let me add — on the authority of Arsene 
Houssaye ! — that all the energies of Crea- 
tion do not succeed in producing throughout 
the whole world one hundred grandes dames 
yearly. And how many of these die as little 
girls — how few attain to "la beaute souv- 
eraine du corps et de Tame ? " " Voila," he 
adds — ** voila pourquoi la grande dame est 
une oiseau rare. Ou est le merle blanc ? '' 
"The Quest of the White Blackbird'': fair 
women, ponder this significant phrase. We 
all seek the Fountain of Youth, the Golden 
Isles, Avalon, Woman (as distinct from the 
fairest of women), Ideala, or whatever sun- 
bright word or words we cap our quest with. 
If wives could but know it, they have more 
cause to be jealous of women who have never 
lived than of any rival "young i' the white 
and red." Yet, paradoxically, with a true 
man, a wife, if she be a true woman, need 
never turn her back upon the impalpable 
Dream; for, after all, it is her counterpart, 
a rainbow-phantom. 

Fair women, all men are not travailing with 

350 



Ecce Puella 

love of you! There are Galileos who would 
say e pur se miiove, though Woman suddenly 
became passee, nay, though she became a by 
no means indispensable adjunct. It is even 
possible there are base ones among us who 
may envy the Australian god Pundjel, who 
has a wife whom he may not see! 

Alas, Fair Women only laugh when they 
behold Man going solitary to the tune of 

" O ! were there an island. 
Though ever so wild, 
Where women might smile, and 
No man be beguiled ! " 



IV 

It is not often that picture-gallery cata- 
logues contain either humour or philosophy. 
There is a naive humour, a genial philosophy, 
in the prefatory note to that of a recent Ex- 
hibition. '' As,'' so the note runs, " there are 
indeed certain pictures of Women, possibly 
more celebrated for their historical interest, 
their influence, or their wit, than for their 
beauty, some exception has been taken to the 
title of the Exhibition. The directors, how- 
ever, do not know of any fixed standard by 
which such pictures can be judged, and, 
further, they believe that in the eyes of some 

351 



William Sharp 

one person^ at least, every woman has been 
considered fair/' 

Whereupon I hum to myself the quatrain 
from the old north-country nursery-ballad of 
** Rashin Coatie '' — 

"There was a king and a queen, 
As mony ane's been; 
Few have we seen, 
As few may we see." 

Alas! there are so many queens of beauty on 
the walls of picture galleries, and yet one's 
heart stays secure from any one of them! 
But, suddenly, I remember a favourite coup- 
let, by Campion, 

"Beauty must be scorned in none, 
Though but truly served in one" — 

and, having thought of and quoted that sweet 
singer, must needs go right through three 
stanzas of his, memorable even in the ever- 
new wealth of Elizabethan love-songs. 

"Give beauty all her right! 
She's not to one form' tied; 
Each shape yields fair delight, 
Where her perfections bide: 
Helen, I grant, might pleasing be, 
And Ros'mond was as sweet as she. 

352 



Ecce Puella 

" Some the quick eye commends. 

Some swelling lips and red; 
Pale looks have many friends, 

Through sacred sweetness bred : 
Meadows have flowers that pleasures move. 
Though roses are the flower of love. 

"Free beauty is not bound 

To one unmoved clime; 
She visits every ground, 

And favours every time. 
Let the old lords with mine compare; 
My Sovereign is as sweet and fair." 

There; all that is to be said about Fair 
Women, or the Beauty of Women, is com- 
pressed into six short lines. This intangible 
beauty is a citizen of the world, and has her 
home in Cathay as well as Europe. No one 
age claims her, and Helen of Troy takes 
hands with Aspasia, and they smile across the 
years to Lucrezia Borgia and Diane de 
Poitiers, who, looking forward, see the lovely 
light reflected in la belle Hamilton; and so 
down to our own day. And then, once more, 
Eve individualised for ever and ever; a 
challenge to all the world to bring forward 
one sweeter and fairer than '' my Sovereign." 

In other words, " each woman is Eve 
throughout the ages." There are many 
Audreys, alas — indeed sometimes, within a 

353 



William Sharp 

square mile even, there seems to be an epi- 
demic of Audreys! — but a far-seeing Provi- 
dence has created many Touchstones. So v^^ 
will believe that in the eyes of at least one 
person each woman has been considered fair ; 
though, to be truthful, *' a man may, if he 
were of a fearful heart, stagger in this at- 
tempt,'' as saith the blithe-fool of Arden 
himself. 

After all, these clowns and wenches in As : 

You Like It are nearer the poetry of cruth \ 

than that cynical prose of Hn-de-siecle senti- I 

ment, of which this is an example : — 

Lady {looking at a sketchy then at the 
Artist), " So: — this is your ideal woman? " 

Artist. " It was." 

Lady. *'Then you have changed?" 

Artist. "Yes. I met her." ' 

As a matter of fact, men who have nothing 
of the ideal in them are, in the eyes of true 
women, as a sunless summer. These women, 
like Glara Middleton of " the fine-pointed 
brain," have a contempt for the male brain 
" chewing the cud in the happy pastures of 
unawakedness." 

Women, plain or fair, do not readily for- 
give. Man should remember this, when he 
acts upon what he considers his hereditary 
right to joke upon the frailties of his enslaved 

354 



Ecce Puella 

goddess. He is apt to think that they are 
reasonless in the matter of their looks, for- 
getful that marriage is a salve to all pre- 
nuptial display! They do not mind back- 
handed compliments: they will smile at Vic- 
tor Hugo when he says that woman is a 
perfected devil; they have a caress in their 
heart for Gavarni when he whispers that one 
of the sweetest pleasures of a woman is to 
cause regret; and they take a malicious en- 
tertainment in the declaration of a man of 
the world like Langree, that modesty in a 
woman is a virtue most deserving, since we 
men do all we can to cure her of it. But 
they will not forgive Montaigne himself 
when he affirms that there is no torture a 
woman would not suffer to enhance her 
beauty. 

"Unfolded only out of the illimitable poem of 
Woman can come the poems of man." 

Thus Walt Whitman. But he does not tell 
us how variously the poets scan that Poem. 
What would be the result of a plebiscite 
among civilised women themselves: if they 
were given by the Powers that Be the option 
to be beautiful, to be fascinating, or to be 
winsome? The woman who believes herself 
predestined to be a wife and a mother will 

355 



William Sharp 

prefer the third: the born adventuress will 
choose the second: the least domestic will 
select the first. On the other hand, it might 
be the other way round. Who can tell? 
Woman is still the Dark Continent of man. 
If one were to live to the age of Methuselah, 
and act on the principle of nulla dies sine 
linea, with every line devoted to the chronicle 
of woman's nature, the volume would be be- 
hindhand even on the day of publication. A 
copiously margined and footnoted edition 
would be called for immediately. Even if by 
that time only one woman were left, there 
would be prompt need of an appendix. 
There would also, as a matter of fact, always 
be a St. Bernard to grumble : " Woman is the 
organ of the Devil " — a Michelet to say with 
a smile that she is the Sunday of man — a 
cynic to hint that love of her might be the 
dawn of marriage, but that marriage with her 
would be sunset of love — a poet to exclaim 
that she was the last priestess of the un- 
known. 

" Feed me with metaphors," says a poet in 
a recent romance ; '* and above all with 
metaphors of Woman. I know none that do 
not make me love women more and more.'' 

Did he know his Balzac? Somewhere in 
that vast repository of thoughts on men and 

356 



Ecce Puella 

women I recollect this : " La Mort est f emme, 
— mariee au genre humain, et fidele. Ou est 
rhomme qu'elle a trompe?" 

Some day a woman will compile a little 
volume of women's thoughts about men. 
These will be interesting. Men will read 
some of them with the same amazed pain 
wherewith recently ennobled brewers and the 
like peruse articles on the abolition of hered- 
itary aristocracy. 

Here, for example, is one — 

"The greatest merit of some men is their 
wife." 

It was Poincelot, a man, who said this : but 
let a woman speak — 

" Physical beauty in man has become as 
rare as his moral beauty has always been/' 

Once more — 

" It is not the weathercock that changes : 
it is the wind." 

Since the days of Troy — or of Lilith — 
men have delighted in calling women weather- 
cocks. 

After all, we have been told many times 
that one of the principal occupations of men 
is to divine women: but it was a wise 
philosopher who added that women prefer 
us to say a little evil of them rather than say 
nothing of them at all. 

357 



William Sharp 



We are all agreed now, let us say, that 
there is no such thing as an universally ac- 
cepted standard of beauty. There is not 
even an accepted standard of beauty among 
those who admire the same type. To the 
most favoured dreamer Ideala will still come 
in at least three-fold guise, as those three 
lovely sisters of the Rushout family whom, 
not Cosway, but, like him, one of the finest 
of miniaturists has preserved for our delight. 
There are a million villages as fair as the one 
in which we were born, but for us there is 
only one village. When we quote " Sweet 
Auburn, loveliest village of the plain," we 
have one particular locality in our mental 
vision, as no doubt the poet of the Song of 
Solomon had when he sang, '^ Come, my be- 
loved, let us go forth into the fields; let us 
lodge in the villages." Doubtless, too, he 
had one particular beloved in view, veiled 
behind his bardic rhapsody. Each of us has 
a particular Eve behind the phantom of an 
ideal type. 

Of course there are both *' villages " and 
" Eves " that exist only in the mind. There 
are dreamers who prefer either when most 
unsubstantial. " Ma contree de dilection/' 

358 



Ecce Puella 

says the Flemish novelist Eekhoiid, "n'existe 
pour aucun touriste, et jamais guide ou 
medecin ne la recommendera." Some, too, 
having found an Eve, will crave for her isola- 
tion from the rough usage of the common 
day, lest she fall from her high estate. They 
are not altogether foolish who can do so, and 
can say with a young living poet : — 

*' I fear lest time or toil should mar — 
I fear lest passion should debase 
The delicacy of thy grace. 
Depart; and I will throne thee far, 
Will hide thee in a halcyon place 
That hath an angel populace; 
And ever in dreams will find thy face, 
Where all things pure and perfect are, 
Smiling upon me like a star." 

This is a temper beyond most of us, who 
are all hedonists by instinct, and in the bodily 
not the spirtual sense. Flaubert the man was 
not representative of us, his weaker fellows. 
" Je n'ai jamais pu emboiter Venus avec- 
Apollon," as he wrote to George Sand, when 
she advised him to try domestic happiness or 
at least a little flirtation. 

Besides, there are men to whom the ele- 
ment of strangeness, of something bizarre 
perhaps, even of something barbaric, is of 
primary appeal. The very quintessence, the 

359 



William Sharp 

crown, the aloebloom of this kind of art, is 
it not Leonardo's Monna Lisa del' Gioconda? 
Perhaps, even more convincingly, in that 
drawing of his in the Academia della Belle 
Arti, in Venice, of a beautiful girl, with side- 
long rippling hair, delicately crowned with 
vine leaves, with that enigmatical smile on 
her face and still more enigmatical smile in 
her eyes — a type finer even than this 
Milanese beauty? It is a type that does not 
appeal to many men, but, where its appeal 
is felt at all, it is irresistible. There is all 
the seduction of nameless peril in these mys- 
terious faces which apparently tell nothing 
and yet are so full of subtle meaning and re- 
pressed intensity. How else, again, are we 
to account for the fascination of such an one 
as Lady Ellenborough, for instance, " the 
imperious Jane," immortalised by Sir Thomas 
Lawrence ? 

Surely it must be admitted that even his 
art does not bestow beauty upon " that 
witch." Doubtless she had a smile that 
could unlock prison doors, eyes that could 
melt a Marat or Danton, a mien and manner, 
an expression and charm, that made her irre- 
sistible to most men. But, on canvas, one 
can see no more than that she looks like a 
woman who had immense vitality. The 

360 



Ecce Puella 

lady's story is certainly a remarkable one. 
Miss Jane Elizabeth Digby must have been a 
vivacious damsel, even while still a school- 
girl, and, in the manner of her time, learning 
to spell execrably. She was one of the for- 
tunate women born with the invisible sceptre. 
If she had been an actress, she would have 
been the empress of the stage; if she had 
been a demimondaine, she would have been 
the Aspasia of her day; if she had been a 
queen, she would have been a Catherine of 
Russia. Again, she was one of those impet- 
uous people who have no time to be virtuous. 
We know next to nothing of her girlhood, 
yet we may be sure that she set her nurse- 
maid a bad example in flirtation, and shocked 
her governess, if she had one, by many abor- 
tive intrigues. No doubt her friends thought 
that she would settle down and be good when 
she became the wife of the Earl of Ellen- 
borough. They argued that what a high- 
spirited Miss Digby would do, a proud- 
spirited Countess of Ellenborough would dis- 
dain. But Miss Jane Elizabeth had, she con- 
sidered, come into the world to enjoy herself 
in her own way. Not long after her mar- 
riage she permitted the too marked attention 
of Prince Schwartzenberg, and this brought 
about a duel between that gentleman and 

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William Sharp 

Lord Ellenborough. Neither duellist was 
killed: and the only result was that not long 
afterwards the lady made up her mind to go 
oflf with Prince Schwartzenberg. After a 
time Lord Ellenborough died, and then his 
widow married the Prime Minister of 
Bavaria. That a genuine passion for this 
strange woman animated the Bavarian noble 
is clear, not only from his having offered 
marriage to a lady of such doubtful reputa- 
tion, but from the tragic circumstance that, 
when she tired of him in turn, and set forth 
once more on her dauntless quest of man, he 
committed suicide. She had several episodes 
between this date and that when she found 
herself in Syria, and espoused to an Arab 
Sheik of Damascus. It would be incredible 
that she died in his arms in the desert, were 
it not for the additional fact that she was 
at that moment contemplating an elopement 
with her handsome dragoman. Miss Digby 
was, certainly, not one of those " beauties " 
towards whom — as Gautier advises — one 
should go straight as a bullet. Instead of 
our seizing "her by the tip of the wing, 
politely but firmly like a gendarme," she 
would be much more likely to seize us. She 
was unreasonable, we will admit, but then, 
with Mme. de Girardin, she might exclaim 

362 



Ecce Puella 

" Be reasonable ! which means : No longer 
hope to be happy." Obviously she was of 
those essentially feline women of whom Ed- 
gar de Meilhan speaks when he says that 
" tigers, whatever you may say, are bad com- 
panions." " With regard to tigers," he adds, 
" we tolerate only cats, and then they must 
have velvet paws." Neither Lord Ellen- 
borough, nor the Bavarian Prime Minister, 
nor the Arab Sheik, nor any other of her 
special friends, would deny that a little more 
velvet on the paws of the sprightly Jane 
Elizabeth would have been an advantage. 

There are always women of this kind, who 
exercise an imperious and inexplicable sway 
over the male imagination, or, to be more 
exact, over the imagination of certain males. 
It is no use to reason with the bondagen 
With the King in Loves Labour's Lost he 
can but reply 

"Yet still is the moon, and I the man. 
The music plays . . ." 

We are fortunate, possibly, who never hear 
this music, a bewildering strain from the 
heart of the Venusberg. Rather that " silver 
chiming," which is '* the music of the bells 
of wedded love." Poets are terrible romanti- 
cists in the matter of the affections. They are 

363 



William Sharp 

the most faithful of lovers to some impossible 
She : but they are apt to have wandering eyes 
in the ordinary way of life. Too many be- 
have, even on the threshold of the Ideal, in 
the reprehensible manner of Samuel Pepys 
when that famous chronicler and incurable 
old pagan found himself in church one fine 
day. " Being wearied," he writes, " turned 
into St. Dunstan's Church, where I heard an 
able sermon of the minister of the place ; and 
stood by a pretty modest maid, whom I did 
labour to take by the hand; but she would 
not, but got further and further from me; 
and, at last, I could perceive her to take pins 
out of her pocket to prick me if I should 
touch her again — which, seeing, I did for- 
bear, and. was glad I did spy her design. 
And then I fell to gaze upon another pretty 
maid in a pew close to me, and she on me; 
and I did go about to take her by the hand, 
which she suffered a little and then withdrew. 
So the sermon ended." It is to be feared 
that Pepys had not realised that counsel of 
perfection, which may be given in the guise 
of a phrase remembered from Evan Harring- 
ton, — '' Both Ale and Eve seem to speak im- 
periously to the love of man. See that they 
be good, see that they come in season.' 



364 



» 



Ecce Puella 



VI 



" But how to know beauty in woman when 
one sees it, that is the question," said to me 
a disappointed bachelor friend the other day. 
" If there is no absolute beauty, and if the 
type is so much distributed in various guises, 
how is a man who cares only for dark women 
to see the insignia of beauty in those who 
have red hair or yellow, and blue eyes, and 
in the matter of complexion are like curds 
and cream stained with roses ? " 

Alas for these uncertain ones, there is 
nothing for it but a steady course of gratify- 
ing and educating the Appreciative Faculties ! 
To my querist I replied in the words of Gau- 
tier as Edgar de Meilhan : " Go straight as a 
bullet towards your beauty; seize her by the 
tip of her wing, politely but firmly, like a 
gendarme/' 

But is there for you, for me, a fundamental 
charm? That charm, surely, must be dis- 
tinction. With the Egoist, " my thoughts 
come to this conclusion, that, especially in 
women, distinction is the thing to be aimed 
at/' This, alone, is what survives, perhaps 
all that ever lived, in the portraits of the 
" beauties " of a bygone day. Then, too, it 
must be kept in mind that the painter, even 

365 



William Sharp 

more than the poet, is a born sycophant. He 
loves the sweet insincerities of the plausibly 
impossible. Most of us are apt to be de- 
ceived by the innuendoes of anecdote, the 
flatteries of rumour, the glamour of the Past, 
the mirage of history. Take, for example, 
Botticelli's well-known '' La Bella Simonetta," 
the lady whom Giuliano de Medici made his 
mistress because of her winsome beauty. 
" La Bella Simonetta : " there is magic in the 
name: it is a sweet sound echoing down the 
corridors of memory. Alessandro Filipepi 
painted her before the greater name of San- 
dro Botticelli became a mockery among the 
ungodly who railed at Savonarola and his 
teachings. Angelo Politian and Pulci 
wedded her loveliness to lovely words, 
and . . . whose pulse, now, would 
quicken because of la bella Simonetta? Even 
through the ingenuity of Sandro's art, a 
quite ordinary damsel confronts us. 

Again, take the acknowledged Fair Women 
of our own country and of a time nearer our 
own : two types so popular as Lely's Countess 
of Grammont and Van Dyck's Countess of 
Sutherland. 

While it is easy to understand how Eliza- 
beth Hamilton became " la belle Hamilton " 
at the Court of Charles II., and had more 

366 



Ecce Pnella 

oflfers of marriage than the number of years 
she had lived, till, in the third year of the 
Restoration, she gave her hand to the cele- 
brated wit and courtier, the Comte Philiberte 
de Grammont, most of us doubtless would find 
it difficult to discover that " fundamental 
charm '' we hoped to see. I could believe all 
that her brother Anthony could tell of her 
beauty and winsomeness, and have no doubt 
that Count Philibert was a very lucky man. 
But, for myself, I realise that even had I been 
a member of that wicked, laughing, delightful, 
reprehensible Cavalier Court, and a favourite 
of fortune in the matter of advantages, I 
doubt if I would have been one of the five- 
and-twenty suitors of "la belle Hamilton." 
Certainly, as things are, one might be Japhet 
in search of a wife and still not be allured, 
even in random fancy, by this particular Fair 
Woman.* Alas, there is yet another charm 
which allures men when Beauty is only an im- 
possible star; in the words of the anonymous 
poet of " Tibbie Fowler o' the Glen," 

"Gin a lass be e*er sae black 
An' she hae the pennysiller, 
Set her up on Tinto tap, 
The win'll blaw a man 'till her." 

*Marryat's Japhet sought a father, but this is not 
a misapplication to boggle at! 

367 



William Sharp 

It was not the fair Elizabeth's " pennysiller," 
however, that was the attraction, though she 
did have what the Scots slyly call " advan- 
tages/' 

Nevertheless, it is clear she must have in her 
beauty something that appeals to many minds 
and in different epochs. The fastidious nobles 
and wits of the Restoration admired her; Sir 
Peter Lely expended his highest powers in 
painting her ; his portrait of her has long been 
the gem of the famous series known as the 
" Windsor Beauties," and at Hampton Court 
she is ever one of the most popular of the 
ladies of the Stuart regime. 

Probably the Countess of Sutherland, of 
whom Van Dyck, it is thought, so much en- 
joyed the painting, must have been more 
winsome in looks, as she was certainly superior 
in graces of mind and spirit. This is the 
famous Lady Dorothy Sidney, daughter of the 
second Earl of Leicester and wife of that 
Lord Sunderland, the first of his title, who fell 
fighting under the Royalist flag at the Battle 
of Newbury; not to be remembered for this 
now, however, but as the " Sacharissa " of 
Edmund Waller's love-poems. True, Waller, 
who was for generations one of the most pop- 
ular, and for a few decades the most popular 
of all English poets, is now almost as little 

368 



Ecce Puella 

read as the least notable of his contemporaries. 
He aspired to be England's Petrarch, and like 
Lovelace with one flawless lyric, or like 
Blanco White, or the French poet, Felix 
Arvers, with a single sonnet, is now among 
the immortals by virtue only of one little song. 
Possibly Laura had as good reason for dis- 
counting the passion of her Petrarco as Dor- 
othy Sidney had for qualification of the pro- 
longed homage of Waller. Both " My death- 
less Laura '' and ** My divine Sacharissa *' 
married another person than the lover who 
gave immortality in verse ; married, and had 
children, and occasionally perhaps glanced at 
the Sonnets to Laura, or the Poems addressed 
to Sacharissa. Not only, indeed, did Lady 
Dorothy choose Lord Sunderland in prefer- 
ence to Waller, but as a widow she even pre- 
ferred the practical poetry of a Mr. Robert 
Smythe's wooing to that which in her youth 
she had had so much experience of in verse. 
Fair and comely she seems in Van Dyck's 
portrait of her, though not the Sacharissa of 
whom one had dreamed. Was it this at- 
tractive English lady who was the inspirer of 
" Go, lovely Rose ? " The thought suggests 
the strange revelation it would be, if we were 
to be entertained with a series of authentic 
likenesses of all the beautiful women we have 

369 



William Sharp 

loved or dreamed of across the ages. *'A 
Dream of Fair Women *' ; what would Helen 
say to it, or Cleopatra, or Guenevere, or, for 
that matter. Eve herself? What a desert of 
disillusion would exist between the catalogue- 
entry, '' Helen, daughter of Leda queen to 
King Tyndarus, who became the wife of 
Menelaus, and subsequently went abroad with 
Paris: commonly known as Helen of Troy," 
and the quoted motto-lines from Marlowe: — 

"Is this the face that launched a thousand ships 
And burned the topless towers of Ilium?" 

Again, fancy the astonishment and chagrin of 
Mr. Swinburne, if he passed one by one the 
actual counterparts of the ladies of the 
" Masque of Queen Bersabe," from Herodias 
to that Alaciel whose eyes "were as a grey- 
green sea," and found that he could not recog- 
nise one of those vignettes in red or white 
flame which he wrought so wondrously in the 
days of his youth ! Semiramis, in truth, may 
have been but a handsome woman with a 
temper, the Queen of Sheba nothing more 
than distinctly pretty, and Sappho passionate 
but plain. 

But there is a difference between the prais- 
ers of Royal beauty and those who hymn ladies 
whom they can also approach when the lyre is 

370 



Ecce Puella 

laid aside. We believe in Laura and Sacha- 
rissa and Castara, and many other fair dames 
beloved of the sons of Apollo. If for noth- 
ing else than because she inspired the loveliest 
of all Waller's songs, we would look with 
ho Mage at this Fair Woman whom the genius 
o'^ Van Dyck has given us a glimpse of: — 

"Go, lovely Rose, 
Tell her that wastes her time and me, 
That now she knows 
When I resemble her to thee 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

'Tell her that's young, 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 
That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts where no men abide. 
Thou must have uncommended died. 

'Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired; 
Bid her come forth. 
Suffer herself to be desired. 
And not blush so to be admired. 

"Then die, that she 
The common fate of all things rare 
May read in thee. 

How small a part of time they share 
Who are so wondrous sweet and fair." 

After all, perhaps the secret of our delight in 

271 



William Sharp 

these Ladies of "the glowing picture and the 
living word " is this : that, even of the fairest, 
the true lover can say, with the poet of " The 
Moonstar " — 

"Lady, I thank thee for thy loveliness, 
Because my lady is more lovely still." 

VII 

To return to the Fair Women of Painting. 
Here, alas, there remain always one or two 
unforgivable disillusions. To begin with, 
there is the inevitable Eve; generally either a 
matronly person discomfortably garbless, or a 
self-conscious studio model. There is Helen 
of Troy, gloriously immortal in the hexameters 
of Homer and the heroics of Marlowe, but 
made ridiculous by innumerable painters. 
And, to come home, there is our own Helen: 
Mary of Scotland. Is there indeed a portrait 
of the Queen of Scots in existence which any 
Mariolater could have pleasure in looking at? 
There are certain women we never wish to see 
except in mental vision. Some readers may 
recollect the Sapphic fragment preserved by 
Hephaestion, which tells us simply that 
" Mnasidica is more shapely than the tender 
Gyrinno." Fortunate Mnasidica, who has 
haunted the minds of men ever since, through 

372 



Ecce Puella 

never once having been enslaved by sculptor 
or painter of any period ! Beautiful Shapeli- 
ness, that none can gainsay! Painters who 
give us Helens and Cleopatras and Queen 
Maries seem to be quite unaware of the heavy 
handicap they put upon their productions. 
And so it goes without saying, that all por- 
•traits of Mary of Scotland are disappointing, 
from that of the earliest anonymous limner to 
that of Mr. Lavery. There is not one of us 
blase enough to withstand the cruel disillusion 
of what, by way of adding insult to injury, is 
called " authentic likeness." Poor Mary! She 
has paid bitterly in innumerable portraits for 
the wonderful rumour of her beauty in her 
own day. No man who respects himself 
should commit lese majeste by ungracious 
comment before any canvas of this pictorially 
much misrepresented Queen. It does indeed 
make one glad that a few others world-famous 
for their beauty were spared the ignominy of 
pictorial immortality. 

If all Fair Women of Picture-world were 
brought together, it would be made quite clear 
that the one thing which in a thousand in- 
stances escapes the painter is expression. Ex- 
pression is the morning glory of beauty. A 
few men in all ages have understood this, 
Leonardo and the great Italians pre-eminently. 

373 



William Sharp 

It IS to the credit of many of the most eccen- 
tric " impressionists '' that they have wearied 
of conventional similitude, and striven to give 
something of the real self of the person whose 
likeness is being transferred to canvas. 
These, with Bastien Lepage, have realised that 
" we must change our ways if any of our work 
is to live." " We must try," adds that notable 
artist of whom Mrs. Julia Cartwright has 
given us so excellent a biography, " we 
must try to see and reproduce that inmost radi- 
ance which lies at the heart of things, and is 
the only true beauty, because it is the life." 

That inmost radiance! To discern it, to 
apprehend it, to reveal it to others, that is in- 
deed the quintessential thing in all art. 

But the spectator must not only make al- 
lowances for the painter of a portrait ; he must 
himself exercise a certain effort. In a word, 
he must bring the glow of imagination into 
play, he must let his mental atmosphere be 
nimble and keenly receptive. He must re- 
member that while portraiture may have veri- 
similitude of a kind, it can very rarely simu- 
late that loveliest thing in a woman's beauty — 
expression. He must discern in the canvas a 
light that is not there. He must see the 
colour come and go upon the face, must see 
^he eyes darken or gleam, the lips move, the 

374 



Ecce Puella 

smile just about to come forth: and, if possi- 
ble, the inner radiance that, in many vivid and 
fine natures, seems to dwell upon the fore- 
head, though too fugitive ever to be caught, 
save as it were for a moment unawares. 



375 



Fragments From the Lost 
Journals of Piero 
Di Cosimo 



FRAGMENTS FROM THE LOST JOUR- 
NALS OF PIERO DI COSIMO * 



Before I went to Rome with my master 
Cosimo many strange things happened. No 
perilous or untoward incidents befell me, it 
is true, but I was ever so curious in the by- 
ways of life that each day brought me some- 
thing whereat to marvel greatly. It was ever 
so with me. Life itself is the supreme mys- 
tery : whoso fathoms that will solve the whole 
secret that has puzzled the wisest men of all 
time. Yet the more I think (and what a 
strain this endless thinking is — thinking, 
thinking, thinking!) the more I realise that 
there can be no discovery for any man save 
the revelation that the world exists for him 
only. What I mean is clear, though perad- 
venture to some it might seem either a sport 
in words, an untimely folly, or to others a 
dark saying, such as the occult wisdom of 
those soothsayers and astrologers who, I am 
well assured, play upon the ignorance of the 

♦Doubtless the Journal of Piero di Cosimo, or 
certain portions of it, must have been known to 
Vasari. His description, certainly, of the Car of 
Death, closely tallies with Piero's own. 

379 



William Sharp 

uneducated. It is this: that whatsoever this 
world has, behind its veil, as it were; such 
hidden beauty or strangeness or terror is only 
to be seen of those eyes which bring their own 
power of seeing. Children and many ignorant 
country-people believe, that the fogs and rains 
which the autumnal equinox bringeth do in- 
deed obliterate the stars from the obscured 
heavens: not knowing that their shining is a 
thing apart, and as far removed from the 
vanities of this earth as the virtues of the most 
Blessed Virgin Mother are from the petty 
goodnesses and shortcomings of womankind 
in this world — and most certainly from those 
of the ladies of Florence, who seem to me to 
have much resemblance to those flighty insects 
which hover in still noons and at sundown by 
Arno-side, having all the characteristics of 
these, but lacking in the most welcome, that 
they perish speedily, even if they survive their 
long day from starsetting to moonrise. But 
wiser persons, to whom the processes of na- 
ture are, in their superficial aspects, not in any 
wise strange, know well the foolishness of 
such surmises about the disappearance of 
heavenly bodies because of the rising of 
earthly mists and vapours. And so is it with 
the more occult world of thought. One must 
have the eye of faith as well as the eye of the 

380 



From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 

body. One must know that there is light be- 
yond darkness, life beyond death, spirit 
beyond clay, just as the educated know that 
the same stars which we saw yesternight still 
whirl their silver spheres through the upper 
spaces, whether mists and darkness intervene 
or the equally obscuring splendour of the sun. 
But over and above this there is a further 
vision which a few have. This sight brings 
to the mind and thence to the soul what is be- 
yond the extremest visual ken. Men so gifted 
are the world's philosophers. They see not 
merely the fixity of the stars and the mutabil- 
ity of the mists and darkness, but the causes 
of these obscurities: and they apprehend also 
the laws whereby the stars exist and scatter 
their remote influences upon the tides of life, 
whether these be of the waters of ocean, or of 
the sap in trees and plants, or of the hot or 
gelid blood in the living things of the world, 
from the lizard and the callous newt to man 
himself. And yet again there are some who 
have a still deeper sight. These are they who 
are the passionate students of life. But of 
what avail is it that one telleth unto another 
his interpretation, if the other understand not 
also something of the occult meanings, the 
lost language, of which it is the halting trans- 
lation? There is no salve to our undying 

381 



William Sharp 

curiosity save that which is found of our- 
selves. Therefore is it why I, for one, have 
long sought diligently of her, Madonna 
Natura — Natura Benigna or Natura Ma- 
ligna? — my one mistress; and how I shall 
ever so continue, even as I have done from 
my youth onward. 

My youth ! Ah ! I was young then when I 
started with good Master Cosimo for the 
court of Pope Sixtus in that near and yet far- 
off Rome. I have already, earlier in these 
journals, written of my lonely but not unhappy 
boyhood, but now I cannot help recalling those 
bygone days. Here is a letter which Cosimo 
Rosselli, my good master, my very father, 
wrote to me, now years agone. It is already 
stained with some chemic dissolution: as the 
world is with the stain of mortality: as / am, 
now that I am sere as one of those October 
chestnut-leaves I brought home with me the 
other day from that deep glade of Vallom- 
brosa I love so well. 

" My ever-beloved Piero," so runs the dear 
familiar hand, " the tears are in my eyes to- 
day, and for two causes. This afternoon, 
after I had finished painting — and, alas! my 
craft is not what it was — I went forth to sun 
myself in the gardens of the Medici, having at 
all times the entry thereto. There, just as I 

382 



From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 

was about to leave, owing to a twilight wind, 
somewhat premature and cold, coming out of 
the greenness of the cypress boughs, I heard a 
sound as of some one sobbing. It had such 
bitter distress in it that my heart ached. After 
a brief time of uncertainty I beheld, quite 
close, and leaning against a very ancient yew, 
an old man, so wearily a wreck of life that 
he seemed rather a human-like excrescence of 
the tree than a fellow creature. But the 
crackling of a cone or twig beneath my feet 
aroused him, and he passed at once from the 
semblance of dismal death to the reality of a 
yet more dismal life. He was about to make 
haste away, as speedily as his age and infirmi- 
ties would permit, and not without an angry 
and half-defiant irritation at my unwitting in- 
trusion, such as, I bethought me, betokened 
some rankling memory of better days, when he 
stumbled over one of the two sticks whereby 
he aided his feeble gait. I ran forward to 
assist him, and who think you, Piero, I recog- 
nised? None other than that true and great 
painter whom you have so often admired, 
Sandro Botticelli ! Ah, how it made my tears 
well to my eyes. But though he knew me, he 
would have none of me. I besought him by 
old friendship, by the memory of our com- 
radeship at Rome, when he and I and Domen- 

383 



William Sharp 

ico Ghirlandajo, and Luca of Cortona, and 
Piero Perugino, all wrought together for the 
Papal award. He laughed once, but bitterly ; 
and taunted me, by asking if I had yet turned 
my pictures into a jeweller's stock; alluding 
therein to the method whereby I gained the 
Pope's prime favour, by the excessive gilding 
of my work, which made his Holiness believe 
it to be superior to the productions of better 
men — (a matter, Piero, I once took pride in, 
but am now ashamed of) : but, on my silence, 
he turned away as though penitent before an 
old friend. ' Mio caro amico, mio maestro 
carissimo' I began, when he brusquely inter- 
rupted me, and cried ' Ecco! Cosimo Rosselli, 
I am Alessandro Filipepi, the son of Mariano 
Filipepi, of Florence, and have nought to do 
with the vain dabbler in painted follies whom 
men call Botticelli. You knew me of old, and 
may call me Sandro if you will, but not that 
other name. Shall my tears and my bitter re- 
pentance never wash out those days of sinful 
vanity ! ' To the which heart-wrung cry I re- 
plied : ' I knew you had thrown away brush 
and pencil, Sandro mio, and that you had be- 
come a Piagnone,* but I never believed, I can- 
not now believe, that you, you, the master Bot- 

*That is, of the bigoted sect of Fra Girolamo 
Savonarola. 

384 



From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 

ticelli — nay, you must let me say it — can 
forget your art. How well I remember your 
saying to Ghirlandajo, that work was good but 
beauty was better, as the soul is lovelier than 
even the most fair body. You cannot have 
forgotten that, nor how you once told Luca 
Signorelli that pure colour was like God, for 
the very being of God is pure music, and pure 
colour is but the visible and beautiful tranced 
body of music' Whereupon he sighed, looked 
at me long and earnestly ; then, muttering only, 
' I am well, I am well, I want for nought/ 
made me sign of farewell, and went on his 
way. But for hours afterward, ay and oft 
since, methought I heard that bitter, miser- 
able sob where the yew and cypress shadows 
were. 

" And the other cause of my weeping to-day, 
though rather a soft summer rain, such as falls 
from my white lilac (where the young thrush 
revolves his song oftentimes leisurely, but 
again with such a marvellous swift joy and 
sweetness as to make me wonder at God's 
grace to these creatures of a springtide), 
rather such a rain I say than the sterner tears 
which I shed earlier over my unhappy Botti- 
celli. 

" For I came by chance, dear son, upon an 
early and a strange letter of thine, when thou 

385 



William Sharp 

wert not yet in thy fifteenth year. How 
keenly it recalled those bygone days! I 
seemed once again to see thee, ever studious, 
and apart from thy fellows, and oftentimes 
rapt in strange imaginings. Fond, indeed, 
thou wert then as now of remote places, and 
of all things fantastic, and of solitude; a 
dreamy youth, moreover, wont to reply 
vaguely to questions of common import. And 
in this letter of thine, writ as I say when thou 
were not yet in thy fifteenth year, thou speak- 
est strangely for a youth. * The bale of life is 
so bitter that one hath perforce to occupy 
one's-self with such diversion as is offered by 
the strange, fantastic, the terrible.' What 
manner of boy is it who writeth thus ? Again : 
* I saw to-day a cloud of those smoke-like balls 
of seed blown from a field of dandelions : how 
beautiful they were, how exquisite their dal- 
liance with the light wind, how perfect each 
delicate part — nothing out of heaven more 
wondrous light and aerial ! All were blown 
upon a rotting dunghill, amid whose indis- 
criminate filth and stench were perishing but- 
terflies, and some stained apple-blossoms, and 
voracious beetles and centipedes and other 
horrible insects, with worms, unwieldy and 
overgorged, rejoicing in corruption. And 
when I went home and fell into a dream, I 

386 



From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 

was sore perplexed whether I had seen all this, 
or had been but deliberating upon dear am- 
bitions, and fair hopes, and human life, and 
the end thereof, and the immortality of the 
worm/ Ah, Piero, Piero, as thou were then, 
so art thou now; men say strange things of 
thy wayward life, though they praise thy 
genius. And the ending of thy letter, how sad 
it is ! * But thee, Cosimo Rosselli, my master, 
whom I love, can deep affection save thee from 
the ills of life? If so, thou art saved indeed ! ' 

" And now, dear Piero, though I have seen 
nought of thee for long, we seem to be closelier 
drawn one to the other. Wilt thou not come 
and visit one who, whatsoever men idly say 
against thee, will ever love thy person as he 
reveres thy genius. Thou knowest that I am 
thine in comradeship and love, Cosimo 
Rosselli.'^ 

• «••••• 

They say that I live more as a wild beast 
than as a man : because I bar my doors against 
the idle and the over curious ; eat, only when 
I am an-hungered; will not have my garden 
digged, nor the fruit-trees pruned; will not 
haunt the streets, or the taverns, or the guest- 
rooms, nor talk much and eagerly of matters 
that concern me not at all. So be it. Per- 
haps the wild beast is none the less beloved of 

387 



William Sharp 

nature than the foolish human babbler. Why 
should I eat save when I would? Why not be 
solitary, when solitude is my festival? Why 
have my garden digged or my fruit-trees 
pruned, when to me the pleasure is greater to 
see the branches trail upon the ground, to be- 
hold the vines grow in their own way (as the 
human fool will not do, but persuadeth him- 
self to ancestral follies, and conventions of 
outworn usage). Nature hath heed of her 
offspring. She hath birds to feed off these 
grape clusters, whether they be high and wind- 
swayed, or lie all ruined in the mould ; butter- 
flies, too, and moths, that haunt the sugared 
ooze upon over-ripe fruit ; and flame-like wasps 
darting hither and thither, with keen knives 
cutting the purple skins; and the larvae of 
many insects, and caterpillars and grey slugs 
and worms — these hath she all to feed, from 
my vines, as well as me. I am but one of 
these: but not so happy, because I think; not 
so wise, because I hope. 

• • • • • • • 

Last night, very late (how white the 
shining of the moon upon the flood or Arno, 
and how deathlike the city in its silence, though 
joys and woes, and passionate hopes and more 
passionate despairs quivered, like exposed 
nerves, beneath the cold, calm exterior), on 

388 



From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 

my homeward way from Vallombrosa, I 
stopped at the house of Antonio del Monte, 
the naturalist. Walking along the chestnut 
glades, hours before, and wondering if ever 
painter would be born who would be able to 
paint living nature, and not but our dull dream 
of her (yet, in my vanity, thinking of that 
landscape which I painted for Pope Sixtus, 
when I went to Rome with Cosimo Rosselli, 
the one which gained me so much praise and 
so many commissions) : wondering also, in my 
strange uplifted ecstasy, if in any other 
world — if such there be, as I shrewdly sus- 
pect, among all those stars and planets over- 
head, despite what the Prior said to me about 
the evil and perilous thoughts of the excom- 
municated and already damned — wondering 
then if there be any more beautiful than this, 
with such infinities of mercy and delight for 
us, and indeed for all living things, I beheld 
somewhat that struck me as with a chill of 
fever. Overhead I saw a hawk, motionless as 
though painted against a dome of blue. It fell 
suddenly, many a score of paces — how many 
I could not say: then hung hovering; and all 
in a moment crashed upon a hen-partridge 
cowering over her chicks, and spilt the blood 
from the cleft head upon the wheat-stacks 
close by. And further, scarce fifty yards away 

389 



/ 



William Sharp 

from where I stood, a fierce stoat crept nigher 
and nigher to a rabbit, which crouched trem- 
bling, giving forth a strange choking sob at 
times, and at the last sprang upon it and drove 
its teeth into the rabbit's skull. And further, 
I saw a sparrow-hawk on a fir-bough, tearing 
a young thrush to pieces, and scattering the 
bloodied feathers to right and left. And 
further, I saw a dead and rotten branch fall 
and crush a white bloom of lilies on the sward 
underneath. And further, I saw at my feet a 
small but agile insect, striped like a wasp, that 
ran backward and sideward as easily as for- 
ward, and it waylaid a tender yellow moth and 
nipped its head off and devoured it. Then a 
passion came into my heart, and I went away 
with my soul sick within me. I laughed at the 
beauty of the world, and cursed the mercy 
thereof. And as I passed the village at the 
foot of the hill I heard a man, blaspheming, 
strike his wife with savage cruelty; and the 
cry somewhere of a child wailing in pain. 
And when I told all to Antonio del Monte, he 
laughed. He said Nature was a beast of prey. 
And I — I — have loved Nature, have wor- 
shipped her! The end of idolaters is death 
within death. 

I remember well — it was after my first car- 
390 



From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 

nival in Rome — that an idea of a new and 
striking, albeit fantastic, masquerade, came 
into my mind. Yet it was not there but in 
Florence that I fulfilled it; and many years 
later. I was in great favour then with the gay 
Florentine youth, ever alert to novelties as to 
fierce deeds : they prized me for my invention 
in designing pleasurable surprises. Of a truth, 
the masquerades became new things altogether, 
after my dispositions were approved and car- 
ried into eflfect. Thenceforth they became tri- 
umphal processions, with men and horses 
gorgeously and strangely apparelled, and with 
wild or joyous music. It was a fine sight in- 
deed, when, along the flower-strewn streets, 
young men (nude, or with leopard or tiger 
skins thrown about them, and garlanded with 
roses and lilies) rode upon foam- white stal- 
lions, these snorting through blood-red nostrils 
or neighing with hoarse clangours that rang 
against the black marble and basalt of the 
Florentine palaces! The sun shone upon the 
ivory skins of the men and the blanched milk- 
white steeds, and upon the trodden flowers, all 
red and white and yellow (that gave up an in- 
describable languorous and most sweet smell, 
as though the very soul of spring were dying 
there and passing away in forlorn fragrances), 
and upon the gay crowd, so brightly 

391 



William Sharp 

and variously clad, and upon the beauti- 
ful fair women — many with wind-lifted 
hair and loosened bodices, and breasts 
that gleamed like globed water-lilies: the 
froth and foam, these, of the carnival- 
tide — laughing, and throwing those deep 
blood-red roses which are called Hearts 
o' Love, and wearing cream-hued and scarlet 
scarfs, twined round and trailing from the 
whitest of arms. And not less striking the 
processional array by night. Down the dark 
streets tramped the white horses, their riders 
now in gleaming armour, or fantastically 
garbed like chieftains of the Magyars or of the 
barbaric East. Two by two the riders went, 
and betwixt each couple not fewer than two- 
score ten stalwart men on foot, each waving 
a burning torch in one hand and carrying an 
unsheathed sword in the other, so that it 
caught and flashed forth a hundred lights. 
The horses themselves were a sight to see, in 
their rich accoutrements! Thereafter came a 
high car, garlanded with flowers and draperies 
and many rare devices. And all this to the 
laughter of men and women, the neighing of 
the stallions, the clanking of weapons, the 
sputtering of the torches, the shrill shrieks of 
Greek fifes, and the furious challenging blare 
of fivescore brazen trumpets ! Ay, these were 

392 



From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 

goodly sights, though none equalled my Mas- 
querade of Death, which is none other than 
the idea whereof I wrote a little ago: and of 
which men speak eagerly to this day, some 
with pleasant awe and dainty shudderings, 
others crossing themselves and muttering of 
devilish imaginations and Anti-Christ and 
papal maledictions. 

I made my Car of Death in such secrecy in 
the Hall of the Pope^ that none — no! not 
one — saw it af orehand. Then I made all ar- 
rangements, not only in mine own privacy, but 
wheresoever the procession should pass by; 
and these arrangements included the way it- 
self, for I had special purpose to fulfil. And 
all who gave me of their service did so under a 
bond of secrecy, for after a while it became 
impossible to hide, from some at least of my 
assistants, either the parts or the whole of my 
scheme. There were two of my pupils who 
were of special service to me, both named 
Andrea. The one is still called Andrea di 
Cosimo: the other, a greater than his master, 
is known throughout all the lands northward 
of Rome, and even to France, as Andrea del 
Sarto. He was brought to me by my friend 
Gian' Barile, the Florentine painter, as a youth 
of exceeding promise ; and I came to love him, 
almost as the good Cosimo Rosselli loved me. 

393 



William Sharp 

He was ever a Passionate of art, from the 
days when he spent his leisure hours staring 
at the frescoes by Leonardo and Michel- 
Angelo in this very Hall of the Pope where I 
made my Car of Death. Rumours have 
reached me in mine old age that Andrea del 
Sarto, whom I see no more (whom do I see, I, 
Piero di Cosimo, ** the mad painter,'' lonely as 
the falling star that last night swept the circuit 
of the heavens, and flashed into an oblivion of 
darkness beyond human ken?) — rumours, I 
say, have reached me that Andrea declareth 
my Procession of Death symbolised the return 
of the Medici. This is false. It is one to me 
whether the Medici feed upon the taxes of the 
Florentines, or upon those of any alien city. 
My device was of fantastical delight and a 
brooding imagination ; and I have thought of 
stranger things still, but have scarce dared 
even to suggest them. 

Thus was it, then, in the height of the Car- 
nival. My great triumphal car, instead of 
being drawn by prancing horses and gaily 
decorated, was yoked to black buffaloes, each 
of sombre and terrible seeming, with horns 
overlaid with whitest plaster, and with eyes 
made hollowly red and burning with virulent 
pigments. The car itself was all hung in 
black sweeping draperies, gloomful as a star- 

394 



From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 

less and moonless night with imminence of 
rain ; very dolorous to look upon ; and yet not 
the less so because, every here and there, 
painted with whitely gleaming dead men's 
bones and broad crosses. High up on the car 
sat the gigantic figure of Death himself, dread- 
ful of aspect, and holding in one outstretched 
hand his ever thirsting and hungering scythe. 
Beneath him, huddled round the huge throne 
whereon he sat^ were dismal tombs, blank and 
awful. Before the slow-moving car and low- 
ering buffaloes, and after it likewise, rode a 
great number of the dead on horseback, all 
singing in a trembling voice the Miserere. 
The sight made many quake, and some who 
laughed broke into sobs. And at those places 
where, in former carnivals, the triumphal pro- 
cession was wont to stop for a sweet and joy- 
ous singing, and for the interchange of blythe 
and happy mockeries and good fortunes, it 
now stopped also ; but, instead, the tombs upon 
the huge car opened, and thence crawled, or 
glided, or sprang forth figures garbed in close- 
fitting black, all painted over with the insignia 
of death, the grinning skull, the long- jointed 
arms and legs, and all the bones of the human 
skeleton. These dreadful things moved close 
one to another ; and then, to the drear accom- 
paniments of muffled strains, sang, in a most 

395 



William Sharp 

melancholy music, that solemn chant begin- 
ning— 

''Dolor, pianfo e penitenzal* etc. 

It was a strange sight. Many, it is said, 
dream of it still. 

• •••••• 

After a still evening, and a sunsetting sky of 
the most marvellous delicate green, with pale 
lemon-yellow spaces beyond, the weather has 
changed. I noted how low the fireflies flit- 
tered among the under-branches of the 
guelder-rose and around the bole of my old 
yew, and how sultry their wandering lights. 
The voices of the dogs barking in the gardens 
of Fiesole came down the slopes no more clear 
and sharp, but as though from afar, and 
muffled, as in a dense snowing. Nothing 
crackled in the garden. That strange beast 
out of Araby or Cathay, which Messer 
Antonio gave me in exchange for my portrait 
of him, made a mewing noise, very weird, yet 
not like any cat or other animal I have 
known — rather like a mad person mouthing 
in vague fear. Methought it might be a lost 
soul. If — if I 

The rain at last ! Streaming, rushing, pour- 
ing down ; the garden-ways aflood ; the house- 
vents spouting forth upon the streets! Most 

396 



From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 

joyous of sounds! Oh, would I were strid- 
ing along, singing my Song of Death, amid 
the now wind-furied glades, in tempestuous 
Vallombrosa ! 



II * 

Yesterday I completed a series of drawings 
of strange animals, similar to those of dragons, 
and other rare creatures, which I made for 
Giuliano de' Medici. I have often wondered 
if, in some far country, a fortunate traveller 
will not unexpectedly come upon those half- 
human creatures of which legends tell us. 
How well I remember going to a wild rocky 
place on the Pisan shore, in hope to see the 
golden hair and white breasts and waving 
arms of those Ladies of the Deep of whom I 
heard oft in my boyhood : or, at the very least, 
to catch the delicate sweet forlornness of their 
alien singing! One night — it seems but 
yester eve as I recall it — I lay in a heathy 
dingle, watching the moonlight resting like the 

* The following excerpts, all that remain of Piero's 
Journal, are plainly of a considerably later date than 
those just given. The postscript by Antonio del 
Monte is written on the page immediately succeed- 
ing that containing Piero's latest entry. There is 
some further writing below the '' Requiescat/* ap- 
parently in Latin, but, save for a few letters, in- 
decipherable. 

397 



William Sharp 

caressing hand of God upon the tired earth: 
and listening to the deep undertone of the 
ancient Sea, as he laid his lips against the 
shore and murmured, in a tongue unknown to 
men, secrets of Oblivion, and dull, remote 
prophecies. There was an absolute hush in 
the air. Now and again the pinging sound of 
a gnat deepened the profound stillness. Al- 
most I fancied that I heard the serene aerial 
chiming of the stars. While I lay there 
adream, mine ears caught the sound of a faint 
splashing. I thought it was a fish, leaping in 
silver upon a moongold wave to snap at a 
wandering firefly. Then as the sound waxed 
more distinct and without intermission, I con- 
ceived the idea that the sirens were swimming 
landward, and I caught myself listening 
eagerly for that wild fantastic music which 
lures mariners to the doom of which no man 
knoweth the manner or fulness. Suddenly I 
heard a low laugh. The sweet humanity of it 
acted upon me like the dawn after a night of 
gloom. As silently as the doe lifts her head 
from the fern-covert when she scents from 
afar off the prowling wolf, I raised myself. 
Per Bacco! was I still adream? ... I won- 
dered. A beautiful girl ran to and fro along 
the sea-marge, her ivory limbs splashing far 
and wide the foam of each long, low, wave. 

398 



From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 

Her hair drifted behind her like the tresses 
of a wind-blown larch. Her beautiful naked 
body gleamed in the moonlight, and as she 
moved hither and thither, now swiftly as 
though pursued, now with dainty listlessness, 
I thought that I had never seen aught lovelier. 
A little cape ran out from the shore, and as she 
neared it she laughed low again and again: 
low, and yet so that I heard it easily. It 
thrilled me unspeakably. There was in it such 
unfathomable pain, and yet with — oh, such a 
subtle rare magic of delight! I felt that I 
could — nay, that I would — follow that low- 
haunting laugh, and that ideal beauty, even to 
the ends of the earth, even though I were led 
into places of death, unspeakable because of 
their terror. Suddenly she — this thing of 
beauty and grace — disappeared as in a wave, 
and I saw her no more. With the speed of a 
man fleeing for his life I raced towards the 
beach. Strange that I should notice, and for a 
second or two halt, because of the shrill sud- 
den cry of an aziola. It mocked me, I thought. 
But when I reached the shore, nought was 
there. There was the same vast stretch of the 
moonlit deep: the same long low wave, for 
ever breaking in foam out of stillness, like the 
froth upon a dying man's lips: the same in- 
scrutable silence on sea and land, save for the 

399 



William Sharp 

pinging of the gnats below the cystus-bushes, 
and the low thrilling monotone out of the heart 
of the waters. Hastily I ran out upon the 
little cape : but no, nought could I see beyond 
it nor close under. Had I, then, beheld one of 
those mysterious creatures who live in Ocean, 
and lament a lost humanity? I wandered all 
night long by the margin of the sea, but heard 
no unwonted sound, save the crying of a 
strange bird far waveward: saw no unusual 
sight, save a furtive phosphorescence which 
came and went upon the dark surface of the 
waters, like an evil smile upon the face of an 
Oriental satrap dreaming of cruel delights. 
But about dawn I met a haggard fisherman, 
who stared at me blankly and muttered some 
foolishness. From him, in reply to my eager 
questions, I learned that one Mariana, the 
daughter of a gentleman of Pisa, had recently 
become distraught because of the exceeding 
beauty of a youth of whom she had dreamt — 
because of his surpassing loveliness, but still 
more because of his visionary immortality, 
which could not mate with her earthliness. 
She had passed through Pisa as one dazed, 
and had been seen at sundown watching the 
inward-moving tide, and laughing strangely 
to herself the while. None had seen or heard 
of her since. But this had occurred many 

400 



From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 

days — ay, weeks — before mine own adven- 
ture. To this day, in all verity, I know not 
whether 'twas Mariana of Pisa whom I saw 
passing like a dream through the wave, or 
some Donna Ignota born of the moonshine and 
the sea. 

• •••••• 

To-night, as I walked in my wilderness (so 
I lovingly call my garden), filled full as it is 
with all manner of strange things and desolate 
growths, I noticed an unwonted flashing of 
red lights. Ever and again it happened, and 
once so that I was almost dazzled. At first I 
thought some rare creature, a lizard or sala- 
mander from afar, or it might be some gem 
or old-time weapon, lay amid the mould; but 
at the last I found to my surprise that this 
flashing of light was caused by two or three 
blooms among a cluster of nasturtiums. One, 
in particular, glowed like the lantern of a 
monk in a dark wine-vault. I knew not till 
then that flowers gave off this mysterious 
effulgence, though, now I think of it, Sulei- 
man has told me that he has seen something 
of the kind in the region beyond Nilus. It has 
made me think. Perhaps all created things 
give off some coloured emanation. I should 
like to paint the people going to and fro in 
the streets of Florence, with all their hidden 

401 



William Sharp 

sins and made visible in furtive flashes of 
scarlet and purple, and wan green and yellow, 
and bloodied red! Crista, how the Medici 
would reward me for my pains if I painted 
them ! Twould be a short shrift then for the 
hermit-painter, Piero di Cosimo! Nay, but 
seriously, what if some of us have this quality? 
'Twould account for the divers strange and 
terrifying apparitions of the dead, of which 
rumour is oft, in the dark hours, so garrulous. 
(On the morrow.) 
I slept little last night, for a deep brooding 
over the thing of which I have writ above. I 
have decided to tell Alessandro Bardi that I 
shall paint him and his Caterina after all. 
How I hate old Luigi Bardi! The insolence 
of the purse-proud man! How dared he in- 
sult me that day on the Ponte Vecchio? — 
sneering at me as a madman because I had 
stood staring for an hour or more upon the 
marvellous violet lights in the shallow flood 
of Arno, laughing loudly while I told him that 
that violet had to be waited for for weeks at 
a time; mocking with his twisted mouth, 
" Violet ! violet ! Corpo di Cristo, hark to the 
man ! He cannot even see aright ! " Fool 
that he was ! Howsoever, it is true that paint- 
ers see deeper into colour, as falconers see 
further than goldsmiths. And yet, because of 

402 



From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 

his ducats, he thought he could obtain a 
portrait of his son and his mistress from me! 
No doubt — si, si amico mio — you shall have 
the portrait — ecco! Piero di Cosimo shall 
paint your son and the twilight-eyed Caterina. 
• ••••■• 

'Tis a month since I have writ aught in 
these pages. Alessandro and Caterina are 
both dead: died o' the plague, it is said. I 
know better. 

They came to me. I made that a condition. 
I painted both upon one canvas. A comely 
youth, Alessandro: Caterina's beauty, melan- 
choly, exquisite, like an autumnal eve on the 
maremma. How they loved each other ! Oft- 
times I laid down my brush, and once I burst 
into laughter so loud and so long that Bardi, 
the good youth, hesitatingly came towards me, 
as a stag might approach a hyena. But I 
waved him back, with muttered execrations. 
Had he gained but one glimpse of my canvas 
he would have slain me forthwith. Oftener, 
I simulated great abstraction in labour, and 
watched them furtively. Her favourite atti- 
tude was to lean her head against his breast, 
and then, many a time, she sang a wondrous 
sweet song of the Trevisan (whereof she was 
a native), so that my tawdry workroom be- 
came glorified, I know not how. His pleasure 

403 



William Sharp 

was to stroke her long lustrous hair, and to 
look dreamily into those shadowy eyes of hers, 
where immortality seemed to brood amid 
depths of death. She was with child, and oft 
looked suddenly at naught, in a wild trouble, 
as I have seen a white hart do at the falling 
echo of a far-off baying hound. Ah! this 
terrible brutality of motherhood. It is a de- 
vice of nature to humiliate the soul, of which 
she is jealous unto death. She has disguised 
it in a rainbow, as a Borgia might convey a 
debilitating, slow-killing poison in an exquisite 
rose. . . . Well, I watched them oft. The 
other eventide I was sitting alone, brooding 
upon the frightful thing before me, all but fin- 
ished it was, when Suleiman entered. I did 
not hear him knock, nor do I believe he did, 
though he so averred. He is a dark and evil 
spirit. He stared at my canvas, and an awful 
look lurked about his eyes and mouth. Then 
he laughed. Thereafter he told me that he, 
too, bore a bitter grudge against Luigi Bardi. 
Dio mio, how it thrilled me when the swart 
Oriental — Suleiman el Moro, he calls him- 
self, though hell knows his accursed name — 
confessed that he had woven a spell upon my 
brushes, so that demons had entered into them. 
" To what end ? " I asked, with my tongue 
moving like a wounded thing in time o' 

404 



From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 

drought. " So that when Luigi Bardi's son 
and his love look upon your painting they shall 
become what you have depicted them." In 
horror I rose, thrust the grim saturnine Sulei- 
man aside, and ran from the house, as one 
pursued by a demon. For I had painted Ales- 
sandro as the Lust of a Devil, and Caterina 
as the Desire of a Beast. Twas a wild re- 
venge upon Bardi : but now God had turned it 
against me. I stayed all the night with An- 
tonio del Monte, moaning so, at times, that he 
cried to me at last a wolf were fitter company. 
On the morrow, filled with remorse, and re- 
solved to end my folly, I hastened back to my 
house. xA.s I passed under the shadow of the 
Duomo I met Pietro Avante, who asked me if 
I had heard that Sandro Bardi and Caterina 
Da Ru had gone secretly from Florence — so 
it was said, at the least, for nowhere were they 
to be found. My heart sank deep, deep, 
though I put a brave front against dis- 
astrous fate. At the end of the Borgo di San 
Sepolcro my late pupil, Giraldo da Signa, 
stopped me, and asked me if I knew whither 
Suleiman el Moro was bound. " Where- 
fore ? " I asked. ** Because, as I was going 
home, an hour before dawn — having been at 
the carousal of Berto Danoli, who is returning 
to Venice as the heir of his old uncle Bene- 

405 



William Sharp 

detto — curse him for a miser! — I descried 
El Moro riding upon a white horse, and me- 
thought he had the face of a corpse as he 
stared, in his swift passing, towards the way of 
the Pisan Gate." '* I know not, fool," I mut- 
tered ; *' think you the accursed Egyptian, or 
whatever he be, is my son ? " But thereafter 
I hurried with trembling limbs to my house. 
When I entered the workroom I thought my 
heart-strings would break : 'twas as though my 
heart were a wet cloth wrung by a woman on 
Arno-side. There lay Alessandro Bardi and 
Caterina^ not only dead, but horrible in death : 
with a likeness, appalling, frightful, to their 
ghastly phantasma on the canvas. I know not 
how they died : whether she shrieked and fell 
(they must have come earlier than their wont, 
and seized the opportunity to look at my can- 
vas), or whether he turned and slew her and 
then strangled himself, or whether demons 
wrought their death, I know not. They looked 
as though they had died of the Black Pest. 
Hastily I dashed paint this way and that 
across my accursed picture, and scraped the 
distorted features with the palette knife, till it 
was as ghastly a ruin as the love of Sandro 
and Caterina. Then again I rushed out, cry- 
ing, ''The Pest! the Pest!'' At first I was 
taken for mad. I know not how it might have 

406 



From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 

gone with me; but the authorities, fearing to 
have even the name of the plague mentioned, 
sent for, and privily removed, the two dead 
bodies, and had them burned on a waste spot 
half a league behind the wester slope of 
Fiesole. And now it is all over — all gone — 
all done. It might be a horror of the night, 
but for this letter from Luigi Bardi, with its 
awful curse; but for this oily, dull-savoured, 
blood-red pebble, come to me this morning, 
whence I know not, without word of any kind, 
without indication, save the word '' Suleiman " 
cried hollowly behind me by — by — some- 
thing. 

• •••••• 

Old age is terrible when manhood is prosti- 
tuted in it. It ought to be as full of peace and 
beauty as a snow-covered landscape in sun- 
light, as happy as a child's laughter among un- 
folding blossoms. To be a derelict upon the 
ocean of life is worse than any sudden wreck- 
age. Death itself can never be truly abject: 
living death is the grave : corruption. 

Sorely distraught have I been of late. No 
sound could I withstand. The very sight of 
priests, monks, councillors, any one almost, of 
flies and shadows even, has made me quiver 
like an aspen. Oftentimes I have thrown 

407 



William Sharp 

down my brushes, cursing, because of my im- 
potent hands. They would give me medicine. 
There is but one potion for me. They would 
poison me, no doubt. But I am already dead. 

God, the beauty of the world! 

• ••.••« 

'Tis all one ravening horror. And I have 
worshipped Nature ! Fool — fool — fool that 

1 was! It is a Monster with a passion for 
Death. It is a Creature, devouring, insatiable. 
We are but the froth blown for a moment 
above its churning jaws. 

Is there anything more beautiful than a 
windless midsummer eve, within the hour of 
moonrise? Nothing stirs, save the flittering 
bats. The slow-circling fireflies swing their 
flames among the cypress boughs. Nature is 
dead, or asleep. God leans downward wist- 
fully, and looks betwixt the stars of His azure 
veil upon the world the foolish priests say is 
His. Somewhere in the unsunned gyres of 
infinity, the unknown God, the third and con- 
quering Protagonist, looks upward, with dim. 
prevision, beyond the twin Portals of his 
Rest — Oblivion and Chaos. 

• •••••• 

(Appended in the Script of Messer Antonio 

408 



William Sharp 

del Monte, Chemist and Naturalist, of 

Florence.) 

Yester-morn, not having seen the maestro 
for many days, and knowing how his madness 
has been growing upon him, I went through 
his desolate garden, strewn with the hones of 
the many rare beasts and what not he hath 
purchased from me, and ruinous with decay 
and damp vicious glooms, and then up the 
broken marble stairs to his door. There was 
a weight against it, I pushed it to, and lo, 
the corpse of Piero, with a most awful horror 
on its face, lying head towards me, with the 
feet still upon the stairway, I note this here 
at once, lest any questioning should arise. 
Here, also, I record his own wish, told me but 
a half-month ago, that he was to be buried in 
his garden, betwixt a great heavy iron crucifix 
that woidd cover him, and an equally huge and 
heavy iron cross. Upon the former was to be 
engraved the single word, SPES, upon the 
latter, NATURA, 

(Requiescat in Pace: Antonio Barili del 
Monte.) 



409 



The Birth, Death and Resur 
rection of a Tear 



THE BIRTH, DEATH AND RESURREC- 
TION OF A TEAR 

It is not only the haschisch eater who can, in 
a moment, pass from the exigent life of the 
commonplace to the dear tyranny of dreams. 
How trivial, how laboriously methodical, is 
that vulgar approach to pleasure — the pipe of 
the opium-smoker, or the drugged coffee of the 
slave of Indian hemp. 

There is another avenue to the gate of 
dreams. Those who have the secret may 
enter at any moment from the maze of life 
and move swiftly to the goal : more swift than 
the desert mare, the fleetfoot wind. 

Thus it was, that to-day, when amid ordi- 
nary surroundings, and alone with a dear 
friend to whom I had come to say farewell — 
a word unsaid after all, and this because of a 
dream — I was suaded from myself by one of 
those unexpected visionary reveries which re- 
lieve even the weariest days of the dreamer. 

It was not willingly I had gone to see my 
friend. My love for her had grown too bit- 
ter, and at last I had come to believe that she 
was of a hard and cynical spirit. But for my 
own sake, as well as for what lay beyond, I 
determined to make an end of what was be- 

413 



William Sharp 

come intolerable. Nor was I allured from my 
purpose by her beauty, her grace, her ex- 
quisitely restrained cordiality. The bitterness 
of renunciation, the greater bitterness of a con- 
viction that she felt only with the brain and the 
nerves, and not with the heart, restrained me. 

We had talked of many things of no real 
moment, and yet I was no nearer what I had 
to say. I remembered the words of a friend 
who also had loved her, and loved vainly: 
'' She is beautiful as the sea, and as cold, as 
emotionless, as deadly cruel." 

I know not by what accident it was that, as 
she stooped over the silver tea-tray, which 
caught the vagrant glow of the fire — all of 
light and sound there was in that quietude of 
dusk — a sparkle as of a diamond came from 
behind the long dark eyelashes which so 
greatly enhanced her beauty. It was an un- 
shed tear ; for I saw it glimmer like a dewdrop 
amid twilight shadows, then suspend tremu- 
lously. Yet it did not fall at last down that 
lovely sunbrown cheek no bloom of any " sun'd 
September apricock " could outvie : as dew 
it came and was absorbed again. 

Whether the dear surprise, or the mere 
white glimmer of that errant herald from the 
heart, fascinated me, I know not ; but suddenly 
my mind was in that motionless suspension 

414 



The Birth, Death and Resurrection of a Tear 

which the windhover has when she lifts her 
breast against a sudden tide of air. 

I saw before me, and far behind, a lustrous 
expanse of waters. The sun-dazzle was upon 
those nearest to me, and the wind, frothing the 
little gold and silver cups tossed continuously 
by the blue wavelets, made a sunny laughter 
for leagues amid the yellow-meaded prairies of 
azure. Beyond, the saffron shimmer lay upon 
hyacinthine hollows deepening to limitless 
spaces of purple. Then the sky-line and the 
sea-line met, and blue within blue was lost. 

I had scarce apprehended the vast extent, 
the near witching beauty, when I realised that 
I was submerged in fathomless depths. I had 
not fallen, and had no sense of falling: rather, 
without sound or motion, the depths had in- 
visibly expanded, and now enfolded me. 

So wrought by wonder was I, that when I 
saw a green lawn stretching before me I did 
not know whether to advance or to look upon 
it as one of the fluid lawns of the sea. Then 
I reflected that in the depths of the sea-water 
would not be of a sunlit green. The next 
moment I was walking swiftly across it, and 
I remember how soft and springy was the turf 
beneath my feet. 

All sense of the marvellous had now left me. 
When, overhead, I heard the rapturous song 

415 



William Sharp 

of lark after lark, I was no more astonished. 
Why should I be, when my eyes were filled 
with the beauty of the wild-roses which fell 
in veils over the wilding hedges and almost hid 
the honeysuckle and fragrant briar: when 
every sense was charmed by the loveliness of 
each garth and copse I passed on my way into 
a woodland, in whose recesses I could hear the 
cooing of doves and the windy chimes of cas- 
cades and singing brooks ? 

Never had I seen any forest so beautiful. 
As I advanced, the trees had an aspect of 
ancient grandeur, or of a loveliness which 
went to my heart. Avenue after avenue, vista 
after vista, disclosed innumerable perspectives 
of green foliage and the hues of a myrild flow- 
ers, with golden sunlight breaking everywhere, 
and overhead and between the high boughs a 
sky of a deep joy-giving blue. White birds, 
and others rainbow-hued, drifted through the 
sun-warm spaces or flashed from branch to 
branch. The fern quivered every here and 
there with the leaping of the fawns, the bleat- 
ing of the does audible the while by some un- 
seen watercourse. Some of the flowers were 
familiar: wild hyacinth and windflowers, 
orchis and the purple anemone, kingcups and 
daffodils, and many others, all children of the 
Spring, but otherwise without heed of their 

416 



The Birth, Death and Resurrection of a Tear 

wonted season, so that the primrose and the 
wild-rose were neighbours, and snowdrops and 
aconites clustered under the red hawthorn. 

But there were also others which were 
strange. Many of these seemed to me as 
though rubies and emeralds and rainbow-hued 
opals had risen from their rocky beds in the 
depths of the earth, and stolen to the surface, 
and bared their breasts to the kisses of the 
sunflame which gave them life and joy even 
while it consumed them with its passionate 
ardour. 

The birds, too, were wonderful to behold. 
There were among them what seemed blooms 
of pink or azure fire with wings of waving 
light : and the song of these was so wilderingly 
sweet that Ecstacy and Silence, walking hand 
in hand through that Eden of Dream, knew 
not when they became one, the Joy that cannot 
be seen nor uttered nor divined. 

Through all this loveliness I went as one 
wrought by the gladness of death. Some such 
rapture as this must oftentimes allure the lib- 
erated soul when, the veil rent, the air of a 
new and stronger delight is inhaled at every 
breath. 

Then, all at once, I knew I was not alone in 
that lovely Avalon. Voices of surpassing 
sweetness prevailed through the green 

417 



William Sharp 

branches. I thought at first that the whisper- 
ing leaves were the sighs and laughter of the 
happy dead. One haunting sweet voice I fol- 
lowed, a delicate, remote, exquisite ululation, 
faint as dream-music across the dark sea of 
sleep. Like one winged I went, for the trees 
slid motionlessly by, as, to the wind, they must 
seem to recede from his lifting pinions. 

In the very inmost Eden of that paradise I 
stood at last, silent, intent. Beside a fount, 
whose crystalline wave was filled with sun- 
gold and frothed with sun-dazzle, bent a spirit 
of a loveliness of which I cannot speak. She 
was as though she were a beam of light from 
the places, east of the sun and west of the 
moon, where the young seraphim for joy re- 
weave the perishing rainbows. 

About her were beautiful tremulous phan- 
toms, coming and going, appearing and vanish- 
ing. These were joys and hopes, aspirations 
and unspoken prayers, dear desires and long- 
ings and wistful yearnings, fair thoughts and 
delicate dreams. 

From her I looked into that halcyon water. 
The sparkle, the shine of it, entranced me. 

At last I spoke. She turned, glanced at 
me with a shy, sweet serenity, and, after a 
brief incertitude, beckoned to me to ap- 
proach. 

418 



The Birth, Death and Resurrection of a Tear 

I knew that I had never looked upon any 
one so lovely; yet, her face was vaguely fa- 
miliar. Doubtless it was Ideala, long sought, 
long dreamed of. 

'' Look," she whispered, as soon as she had 
slipped her hand into mine. Together we 
bent over the sunlit fount. It was like an 
opal in its lovely hues. In the very core of it 
I saw what seemed the most exquisite pearl. 
This appeared to me to be forming, for every 
moment it grew lovelier. Suddenly it rose, 
came to the surface, and, for a few seconds, 
was filled with sunlight, before it welled into 
one of the many golden conduits which, I now 
noticed, led from the fountain. 

A few seconds: yet in that single pulse of 
time I learned a wonderful thing. '' Do you 
see this fount ? " said Ideala again, in the same 
low thrilling whisper : '' it is the heart of my 
heart." 

" Of your heart, O beautiful Dream?" 

" Yes. Do you not know that you are now 
in my heart? All this fair Eden you have 
traversed, since you came from the deep wave 
that brought you hither, is my heart. You 
saw the flowers, you heard the songs of the 
birds, the voice of cool waters, the murmur of 
strange winds : Did none interpret to you ? " 

" And all these lovely phantoms, these 

419 



William Sharp 

beautiful Hopes and Aspirations and tender 
Sympathies and brave Heroisms ? " 

*' They are my helpers and servers ; but I 
do not see them." 

"' And this fount, this sunlit water? " 

*' It is the Fount of Tears that is in every 
woman's heart. Now it is warmed with flood- 
ing sunshine, because I love. Thus it is that 
the tears that rise are single just now : and are 
so beautiful, wrought as they are of rainbow- 
hope." 

*' And who are you ? " I cried, a sudden, 
wild, passionate hope coming upon me like a 
tempest, making me as a leaf before the wind. 

She looked at me amazedly. 

Her lips moved, but I caught no sound. A 
swift mist was rising between us. She had 
withdrawn her hand, and though eagerly I 
stretched my arms I could not reach her. 

A name, the dearest of all names, burst 
from my lips. I saw a wonderful light in the 
beautiful face. The eyes, the eyes told me all. 
Lamps of home, sweet lamps of home! 

There was a rush of waters. The tear I 
had seen welling from her heart was the same 
as that which died on her eyes, and had in its 
death borne me to the lovely sanctuaries of her 
heart. Again, it expanded into a great wave ; 
again a limitless ocean stretched beyond me; 

420 



The Birth, Death and Resurrection of a Tear 

again I was enveloped and borne swiftly from 
depth below to depth above, till the senses for 
one flashing second reeled as the soul returned 
from its moment's flight. 

Did I say an unshed tear gleamed upon me 
from behind the dark eyelashes of her whom I 
loved, and so little understood, so scarcely 
knew? 

Truly, I saw it glimmer like a dewdrop amid 
twilight shadows: then suspend tremulously: 
but now — how long ago, or but the breath of 
a moment? — that which had been born in 
longing and had died in pain, knew, now, a 
lovely resurrection. 

My heart was full of a great joy, a great 
reverence. I rose, trembled, and at that mo- 
ment the tear fell down the lovely sunbrown 
cheek no bloom of any '' sun'd September apri- 
cock '* could outvie. 



421 



The Hill- Wind 



THE HILL-WIND 

When the Hill-Wind awoke by the tarn the 
noontide heats were over. The blithe mountain- 
air, fragrant with thyme and honey-ooze, with 
odours of pine and fir, flowed softly across the 
uplands. The sky was of a deep, lustrous, 
wind-washed azure, turquoise-tint where it 
caught the sun-flood southerly and westerly. 
A few snowy wisps of vapour appeared here 
and there, curled like fantastic sleighs or 
sweeping aloft as the tails of wild horses ; then 
quickly became attenuated, or even all at once 
and mysteriously disappeared. Far and near 
the grouse called, or rose from the cranberry- 
patches in the ling in their abrupt flurries of 
flight, beating the hot air with their pinions 
till it was vibrant with the echoing whirr. The 
curlews wheeled about the water-courses, cry- 
ing plaintively. Faint but haunting sweet as 
remote chimes, the belling of the deer was 
audible in the mountain-hollows. 

A myriad life thrilled the vast purple up- 
land. The air palpitated with the innumer- 
able suspirations of plant and flower, insect 
and bird and beast. Curious in the tarn the 
speckled trout caught the glint of the wander- 

425 



William Sharp 

ing sunray ; far upon the heights the fleeces of 
the small hill-sheep seemed like patches of 
snow in the sunlight; remote on the scaur 
beyond the highest pines, the eagle, as he 
stared unwaveringly upon the wilderness be- 
neath him, shone resplendent as though com- 
pact of polished bronze set with gems. 

Every sound, every sight, was part of the 
intimate life of the Hill-Wind. All was 
beautiful : real. The remote attenuated scream 
of the eagle: the high thin cry of the kestrel 
when doubling upon herself in hawking the 
moorland ; the floating lilt of the yellow-ham- 
mer : the air-eddies sliding through the honey- 
laden spires of heather, or whispering among 
the canna and gale : the myriad murmur from 
the leagues of sunswept ling and from the dim 
grassy savannahs which underlay that purple 
roof: each and all were to her as innate 
voices. 

For a long time she lay in a happy suspen- 
sion of all thought or activity, fascinated by 
the reflection of herself in the tarn. Lovely 
was the image. The soft, delicately-rounded 
white limbs, the flower-like body, seemed 
doubly white against the wine-dark purple of 
the bell-heather and the paler amethyst of the 
ling. The large shadowy eyes, like purple-blue 
pansies, dreamed upward from the face in the 

426 



The Hill-Wind 

water. Beautiful as was the sun-dazzle in 
the hair that was about her head as a glory 
of morning, even more beautiful was the 
shimmer of gold and fleeting amber shot 
through the rippled surface and clear-brown 
undercalm of the tarn; where also was mir- 
rored, with a subtler beauty than above, the 
tremulous sulphur-butterfly, poising its yellow 
wings as it clung to her left breast, ivory- 
white, small, and firm. 

Dim inarticulate thoughts passed through 
the mind of the Oread — for an Oread the 
Hill-Wind had been, long, long ago, beyond 
many lovely transformations — as she lay 
dreaming by the mountain-pool. Down what 
remote avenues of life fared her pilgrim eyes, 
seeking ancestral goals; from what imme- 
morial past arose, like flying shadows at 
dawn, recollections of the fires of sunrise 
kindling along the mountain-summits, of the 
flames of sunset burning slowly upward from 
the beech-forests to the extreme pines, sombre 
torches erelong against the remotest snows; 
vague remembrances of bygone pageants of 
day and night, of the voicing of old-world 
winds and the surpassing wonder of the inter- 
change and outgrowth of the seasons, from 
the Spring Chant of the Equinox to the dirge 
Euroclydon. Ever and again drifted through 

427 



William Sharp 

her mind fleeting phantoms of life still nearer 
to herself: white figures, seen in vanishing 
glimpses of unpondered, all-unconscious 
reverie — figures which slipt from tree to tree 
in the high hill-groves, or leaped before the 
wind, with flying banners of sunlit hair, or 
stooped to drink from the mountain-pools 
which the deer forsook not at their approach. 
Who, what, was this white shape, upon whose 
milky skin the ruddy light shone, as he stood 
on a high ledge at sundown and looked medi- 
tatively upon the twilit valleys and gloomsome 
underworld far below? Whose were these 
unremembered yet familiar sisters, flowerlike 
in their naked beauty, gathering moonflowers 
for garlands, while their straying feet amid 
the dew made a silver shimmer as of gossa- 
mer-webs by the waterfalls? Who was the 
lovely vision, so like that mirrored in the tarn 
before her, who, stooping in the evergreen- 
glade to drink the moonshine-dew, suddenly 
lifted her head, listened intently, and smiled 
with such wild shy joy? 

What meant those vague half -glimpses, 
those haunting illusive reminiscences of a past 
that was yet unrememberable? 

Troubled, though she knew it not, uncon- 
sciously perplexed, vaguely yearning with that 
nostalgia for her ancestral kind which had 

428 



The Hill-Wind 

been born afresh and deeply by the contempla- 
tion of her second self in the mountain pool, 
the Hill-Wind slowly rose, stretched her 
white arms, with her hands spraying out her 
golden hair, and gazed longingly into the blue 
haze beyond. 

Suddenly she started, at the irruption of an 
unfamiliar sound that was as it were caught 
up by the wind and flung from corrie to corrie. 
It was not like the fall of a boulder, and it 
sounded strangely near. Stooping, she 
plucked a sprig of gale: then, idly twisting it 
to and fro, walked slowly to where a moun- 
tain-ash, ablaze with scarlet berries, leaned 
forward from a high heathery bank overlook- 
ing a wide hollow in the moors. A great 
dragon-fly spun past her like an elf's javelin. 
The small yellow-brown bees circled round 
and brushed against her hair, excited by this 
new and strange flower that moved about like 
the hill-sheep or the red deer. As she stood 
under the shadow of the rowan and leaned 
against its gnarled trunk, two small blue but- 
terflies wavered up from the heather and 
danced fantastically over the sun-sprent gold 
above her brow. She laughed, but frovvmed 
as a swift swept past and snapt up one of the 
azure dancers. With a quick gesture she 
broke off a branch of the rowan, but by this 

429 



William Sharp 

time the other little blue butterfly had wavered 
off into the sunlight. 

Holding the branch downward she smiled 
as she saw the whiteness of her limbs beneath 
the tremulous arrowy leaves and the thick 
clusters of scarlet and vermilion berries. 
Whenever the gnats, whirling in aerial maze, 
came too near, she raised the rowan branch 
and slowly waved them back. Suddenly . . . 
her arm stiffened, and she stood motionless, 
rigid, intent. It was the Voice of the Sea, the 
dull, obscure, summoning voice that whispered 
to the ancient Gods, and called and calls to all 
Powers and Dominions that have been and 
are ; the same that is in the ears of Man as an 
echo; and in the House of the Soul as a ru- 
mour of a coming hour. 

Motionless herself, her eyes travelled 
through the long haze-blue vistas of the hills. 
The scythe-swift Shadow of a mighty pinion 
moved from slope to slope. The Hill- Wind 
sighed. Then, smiling under some new im- 
pulse of joy, she leaped forward, but only in- 
dolently to throw herself upon a flood of sun- 
light streaming by. 

The wide reach of harebell-waters, beyond 
where the heather broke down to the sea, 
shimmered suddenly into a dazzle of gold 
flame. A few waves swung aloft their coro- 

430 



The Hill-Wind 

nals of foam, laughing joyously to the chant 
of their sweet sea-tune. They had gained a 
sister: the Sea-wind, a bride: and Ocean a 
breath, a suspiration, an ended sigh. 



431 



Love in A Mist 



LOVE IN A MIST 

In a green hollow in the woodlands, Love, a 
mere child, with sunny golden curls and large 
blue eyes, stood whimpering. A round tear 
had fallen on his breast and trickled slowly 
down his white skin, till it lay like a dewdrop 
on his thigh : another was in pursuit, but had 
reached no further than a dimple in the 
chubby cheek, into which it had heedlessly 
rolled and could not get out again. Beside 
Love was a thicket of white wild roses, so 
innumerable that they seemed like a cloud of 
butterflies alit on a hedge for a moment and 
about to take wing — so white that the little 
wanderer looked as though he were made of 
rose-stained ivory. Here was the cause of 
the boy's whimpering. A thorn-point had 
slightly scratched his right arm, barely tearing 
the skin but puncturing it sufficiently to let 
a tiny drop of blood, like a baby rowan-berry, 
slowly well forth. 

Love looked long and earnestly at the 
wound. Then he whimpered, but stopped to 
smile at a squirrel who pretended to be exam- 
ining the state of its tail, but was really watch- 
ing him. When the little drop of blood would 

435 



William Sharp 

neither roll away nor go back, Love grew 
angry, and began to cry. 

" Ah, I am so weak," he sighed ; '' perhaps I 
shall die ! Ah, wretched little soul that I am, 
to lie here in this horrible thorny wood. 
No — no — I will drag myself out into the | 

sunshine, and die there. Perhaps — p'raps — | 

(sniiHe) — 'aps — (sniffle) — a kind lark will " I 

— (sniffle). 

Sobbing bitterly. Love crept through a 
beech-hedge, and so into the open sunlit 
meadow beyond. He was so unhappy that he 
quite forgot to knock off from a grey thistle 
a huge snail, although its shell shone tempt- 
ingly many-hued; and even a cricket that 
jumped on to his foot and then off again 
hardly brought to his face a wan smile. 

But after sitting awhile by a heavy bur- 
dock, and sobbing at gradually lengthening 
intervals, he stopped abruptly. Out of a garth 
of red clover and white campions he saw two 
round black eyes staring at him with such 
unmitigated astonishment that he could do 
nothing else but stare back with equal rigidity 
and silence. 

" Why, it is only a brown hare," exclaimed 
Love below his breath. ** How it smiles ! " — 
and therewith he broke into so hearty a laugh 
that the hare sprang round as if on a pivot, 

436 



Love in a Mist 

and went leaping away through the meadow. 
Beyond the puffed campions were a cluster of 
tall ox-eye daisies, and they moved so tempt- 
ingly towards him in the breeze that Love ran 
as it were to meet them. 

No sooner, however, was he in their midst 
than he pluckt them one by one, and then ran 
back with them towards the wood, in whose 
cool shadow, he thought, it would be delight- 
ful to weave of them a starry wreath. 

But by the time the wreath was woven, 
Love was both thirsty and aweary of being 
still. So, having sipped the dew from a bed 
of green mosses among the surface-roots of 
a vast oak, he ran into a little wilderness of 
wild hyacinths, and danced therein with mad- 
dest glee, while the sunlight splashed upon 
him through the dappling shadows of the oak 
boughs. 

A fat bumble-bee and two white butterflies 
joined him for a time, but at last the bee grew 
hot and breathless, and the butterflies were 
frightened by his joyous laughter and the 
clapping of his little hands. Scarce, however, 
was he left alone once more than he descried 
a young fawn among the fern. It took him 
but a moment to snatch his wreath of ox-eye 
daisies and but another to spring to the side 
of the startled fawn and place the wreath 

437 



William Sharp 

round its neck. The great brown eyes looked 
fearfully at Love, who, little rascal, pretended 
to be caressing when he was really making 
ready for a leap. In a second he was on the 
fawn's back — but, ah ! poor Love, he had not 
calculated for such a flight. Away sped the 
fawn, athwart the glade, through the hollow, 
and out across the meadow towards the sand- 
dune. Gradually Love's hold became more 
and more insecure, and at last off he came 
right into a mass of yellow irises and a tad- 
pole-haunted little pool. 

Love might have stopped to cry, or at least 
to chase the tadpoles, but he happened to see 
a sea-gull flying low beyond him across the 
dunes. With a shout he pursued it, forgetful 
alike of the fawn and his lost wreath. 

But when he came to the break in the 
dunes he could not see the ocean because of the 
haze that lay upon it, and in which the sea- 
gull was soon lost to sight. But at least the 
sands were there. For a time he wandered 
disconsolately along the shore. Then, when 
he saw the tide slowly advancing, he frowned. 
'' Ha ! ha ! " he laughed, '' I shall build a castle 
of sand, and then the sea will not know what 
to do, and the white gull will come back 
again." 

But having built his sand-castle, Love was 

438 



Love in a Mist 

so weary that he curled himself up behind the 
shallow barrier, and, having wearily but lov- 
ingly placed beside him three pink half-shells, 
a pearly willie-winkie, a piece of wave-worn 
chalk, and a hermit-crab (which soon crawled 
away), he was speedily asleep. 

Before long the ripple of the water against 
the very frontier of his small domain aroused 
the brine-bred things that live by the sea- 
marge. A few cockles gaped thirstily, and 
one or two whistle-fish sent their jets of water 
up into the air and then protruded their shelly 
snouts as if to scan the tardy advance of the 
tide. The sand-lice bestirred themselves, 
creeping, leaping, confusedly eager not to be 
overtaken by that rapid ooze which would 
quicksand them in a moment. 

Then a piece of dulse was washed right on 
to the castle-wall. On the salt-smelling wrack 
was a crab, and this startled voyager saw dry 
land and mayhap new food to sample in the 
white foot of Love that lay temptingly near. 
Just then a flying shrimp, a mad aeronaut, a 
reckless enthusiast among its kind, took the 
fortress at a leap and alighted on Love's white 
and crinkled belly. The boy's body instinct- 
ively shivered. Still, he might not have 
awaked, had not the crab at that moment joy- 
ously gripped, as succulent prey, his little 

439 



William Sharp 

toe, curled as it was like a small and dainty 
mollusc. 

Love sat up, and with indignant eyes re- 
monstrated with the crab, who had at once 
given way and retreated with haphazard as- 
siduity to the shelter of a convenient pebble 
partially embedded in the sand. 

As for the shrimp, it had come and gone 
like the very ghost of a tickle, like the dream- 
fly of sleepland. 

But suddenly Love heard a voice, a low 
whisper, coming he knew not whence, and yet 
so strangely familiar. Was it borne upon the 
white lips of the tide, or did it come from 
the curving billow that swept shoreward, or 
from the deep beyond ? Who can guess what 
the voice said, since Love himself knew not 
the sweet strange word, but was comforted: 
knowing only that he was to return to the 
wood again. Fragments he caught, though 
little comprehensible : " My child, my little 
wandering Love, who art born daily, and art 
ever young," and then the words of which he 
knew nothing, or but vaguely apprehended. 

Yet ever petulant. Love would rather have 
stayed by the sea, even to the undoing of his 
castle-walls, already toppling with the upward 
reaching damp of the stealthy underooze, had 
he not descried a white wild-goat standing on 

440 



Love in a Mist 

the dune and looking at him with mild eyes 
like sunlit sardonyx. With a glad cry he ran 
towards the goat, who made no play of 
caprice but seemed to invite, for all the 
strangeness of the essay, this young rider with 
the child's smile and the emperor's eyes. 

The yellow-hammers and ousels, the whin- 
chats and sea-larks sent abroad long thrilling 
notes in their excitement, as the white goat, 
with Love laughingly astride, raced across the 
dunes and over the meadows towards the 
wood. But as the too-impulsive steed took a 
fallen oak at a bound, its feet caught in the 
loose bark, and poor Love was shot forward 
into a hollow of green moss. Alas, in the 
comet-like passage thither, a nettle slightly 
stung the sole of one foot ; so that the moment 
he had recovered from his somersault he 
snatched a broken oak-branch, and turned to 
chastise the too heedless goat. But, to his as- 
tonishment, no goat was to be seen. It had 
disappeared as though it were a blossom 
blown by the wind. 

Rubbing his eyes. Love looked again and 
again. No goat; no sound, even, save the 
ruffling of the low wind among the lofty 
domes of the forest, the tap-tapping of a 
woodpecker, the shrill cry of a jay and indis- 
criminate warbling undertone of a myriad 

441 



William Sharp 

birds, with, below all, the chirp of the grass- 
hopper and the drone of the small wood-wasp 
and the foraging bee. 

Beyond the last copse the sun was slowly 
moving in a whirl of golden fire. 

Hark! what was that? Love started, and 
then slipped cautiously from tree to tree, find- 
ing his way into the woodland like a gliding 
sunray. He heard voices, and a snatch of a 
song : — 

" The wild bird called to me ' Follow ! ' 
The nightingale whispered ' Stay ! ' 
When lost in the hawthorn-hollow 
We" 

The next moment he descried a lovely girl 
lying on the moss below an oak, with her face 
towards the setting sun, whose warm flood 
soaked through the wide green flame of the 
irradiated leaves. A little way beyond her 
was a young man, no other than the singer, 
standing by an easel, and putting the last 
touches to the canvas upon which he was at 
work. 

Love was curious. He had never seen a 
picture, and, in fact, he thought the man 
was probably spreading out something to eat. 
He, child though he was, was so fearless, that 
no one could have daunted him, and so na- 

442 



Love in a Mist 

lively royal, that no idea even of his being 
gainsaid troubled his brain. 

With great interest he stole alongside the 
painter. He looked at the canvas dubiously; 
sniffed it; and then turned away with a ges- 
ture of disapproval. He liked the look of 
the pigments on a palette that lay on the 
ground, and thought that the man was per- 
haps no other than he who painted the king- 
cups and violets and the bells of the hya- 
cinths. But the smell made him sick, and so 
he stole towards the girl to see what she was 
doing. 

It vaguely puzzled him that neither the man 
nor the girl seemed to be aware of his pres- 
ence; yet, as Love never troubled to think, 
the bewilderment was but a shadow of a 
passing cloud. The girl was beautiful. He 
loved better to look at her than at any other 
flower of the forest. Even the blue corn- 
flower, even the hedge-speedwell, had not so 
exquisite a blue as the dream-wrought eyes 
into whose unconscious depths he looked long, 
and saw at last his own image, clear as in 
deep water. " I wish she would sing," said 
Love to himself ; " that man yonder is no 
better than a huge bumble-bee." With a rnis- 
chievous glance he pluckt a tall wind-flower, 
and gently tickled her with it. 

443 



William Sharp 

A faint smile, a delicate wave of colour, 
came into her face. ''Ah, Love! Love!" she 
whispered below her breath. 

How sweet the words were! With a 
happy sigh Love cuddled up close to the 
beautiful girl, and, tired and drowsy, would 
soon have fallen asleep, had not the heaving 
of her bosom disturbed him. 

" Ah, what a tiresome world it is,'' ex- 
claimed Love fretfully, as he crawled indo- 
lently away, and then rested again among 
some blue flowers. There he sat for some 
time, sulkily tying a periwinkle round each 
toe. Suddenly, with a cry of joy, he descried 
among the flowers his lost bow and sheaf of 
arrows. With a merry laugh he reached for 
them, and in mere wantonness began to fray 
the petals with an arrow, and to tangle them 
into an intricate net of blue blossom and 
green fibre. 

But in the midst of his glee came retribu- 
tion. He heard a rustling sound, a quick ex- 
clamation, and the next moment an easel fell 
right atop of him, and, but for his soft, mossy 
carpet, might have flattened him, for all his 
white plumpness. True, the easel was picked 
up "again immediately, but Love felt the in- 
sult as well as the blow. With a yell of 
anger, that very nearly startled a neighbour- 

444 



Love in a Mist 

ing caterpillar, he fitted an arrow to his 
bow, and shot it straight at the clumsy owner 
of the easel. "Aha," he thought, ''I have 
paid you back, you see," for he saw the young 
man stop, grow pale, hesitate, and then sud- 
denly fall on his knees. *' Ah ! he is wounded 
to death," and Love's tender heart got the 
better of his resentment, and he would fain 
have recalled that deadly arrow. But to his 
astonishment the youth seemed more eager to 
seize and kiss the girl's hand than to save his 
life, if that were still possible ! 

As for the girl, the sunset was upon her 
face as a flame. She tried to rise, and in 
doing so trampled upon one of Love's toes. 
Poor little Love danced about furiously on 
one foot, holding his wounded toe with one 
hand; but alas! again his hasty anger over- 
came him, and, before he realised what he had 
done, he shot another arrow, this time straight 
at the heart of the lovely girl. 

Alas, how it weakened her at once ! In the 
agony of death, no doubt^ she fell forward 
into the man's arms and laid her head upon 
his breast. 

But speedily Love saw that they were not 
dead or even dying, but merely kissing and 
fondling each other, and this too in the most 
insensate fashion. 

445 



William Sharp 

" Oh, how funny ! how funny ! " laughed 
Love, and rolled about in an ecstasy among 
the blue flowers, making the tangle worse 
than ever. 

• •••••• 

(Twilight) 
She. Darling — darling — let me go now 

— let me go. It will soon be dark. 
He. Sweetheart, wait! 

She. Hush! What is that? 

(A low tiny snore comes from amidst the 
blue flowers.) 

He. Oh, it is only a bettle rubbing its 
shards, or a mole burrowing through the 
grass. 

She. Ah, look; we are trampling under 
foot such beautiful flowers. These must be 
our flowers, dear, must they not? What are 
they? 

He. I don't know — ah, yes, to be sure 

— they must be the flower called ** Love in a 
Mist." 

She (dreamily). I wonder if we could see 
Love himself if we searched below all this 
blue tangle ? 

. . . She leans down, and peers through 
the blue veil of the flowers. Love wakes 
with the fragrance of her warm breath play- 
ing upon his cheek, but does not stir, for he is 

446 



Love in a Mist 

remorseful at having shot an arrow at so 
lovely a thing. With loving caressing touch 
he gently lays a dew-drop into each blue' 
flower of her eyes. . . . 

She {whispering as she rises). How beau- 
tiful, how wonderful it all is! 

He, Ah, darling, tears in those beautiful 
eyes! Come, let me kiss them away. 

Love (below his breath). Greedy wretch 
— I gave them to her! Ah, she shall have 
many more, and you, mayhap, none ! 

Hand in hand, the lovers go away, and, 
well content, Love turns over on his side and 
is soon sound asleep. The moon rises, full 
and golden yellow. From a beech-covert a 
nightingale sings with intermittent snatches 
of joy. Above the blue flowers two white 
night-moths flicker in a slow fantastic way- 
ward dance. A glowworm, hanging on a 
lock of Love's curly hair, shines as though it 
were the child of a moonbeam and a flower. 

But at last the glowworm, crawling from 
its high place and adown the white sweetness 
of Love's face, tickled his small nose, and 
caused him to sit up, startled, and wide 
awake. " What — who ? " muttered Love 
confusedly. 

The Nightjar. 

Quir-rr-rr-o 1 . . . Quir-rr-rr-o I 

447 



William Sharp 

The Nightingale. 
Kew-u-ee, kwee ! Kwee-kwee-tchug ! tchug! 
tchug! kwee-kwilloh! 

A Restless Magpie {mockingly), 

kwollow- 



Kwilloh 


. . . kwollow, ohee 


kwan! 






Echo. 


Follow 


. . . oh, follow them! 




Further Echo. 


Follow! 


. . . Fol . . . low! 




Love (rising). 


I come, 


I come ! who calls ? 




Distant Echo (faintly) 


Fol . . 


. low. 



448 



The Sister of Compassion 



THE SISTER OF COMPASSION 

(To Mrs. Mona Caird) 
The June sunshine moved upon me like a 
flood. In my sleep, or drowsy reverie, as I 
lay in the hollow of the tamarisk-fringed 
dunes which formed the frontier between the 
forest and the sea, I could hear the two most 
thrilling voices of Nature — the murmur of a 
slow wind meshed among green branches, and 
the confused whispered tumult of great wa- 
ters. 

The unwontedly sustained crying of a gull 
caused me to stir, turn, and lean on my el- 
bows, with my face against the near waving 
of the birches which ran out from the wood- 
land. A score of yards to the right, a boul- 
der rose from a garth of fern. Its forehead 
was white with bleached sea-moss, its sides 
golden with lichen ; and like a white magnolia- 
bloom upon it was a snowy fulmar, crouch- 
ing in pain. I saw that the poor bird had 
been wounded, and as it attempted to rise, at 
the moment I stirred, I could see that it had 
been shot, for the left wing was helplessly 
adroop. 

If the fulmar would let me approach, I be- 

451 



William Sharp 

lieved I could ease its agony; but, alas, man 
is the apparition of Death to his weaker com- 
rades in the common heritage of life. By his 
own madness of wrong and cruelty he has 
forfeited that elder brotherhood which should 
be his pride as it is natively his right. 

How, indeed, as it was through the wanton 
act of a man that the bird had been given over 
to prolonged agony and sure death, could it 
have been otherwise; yet it was with deep 
disappointment that, after I had been allowed 
to approach within a few yards' distance, the 
fulmar suddenly hurled itself into the fern. 
There, like a wounded duck among sedge and 
bulrush, it floundered heavily in a wild and 
despairing panic. 

From the sky, a living blue, came the songs 
of unseen larks : from the woodland, the coo- 
ing of cushats, the sweet chitter of small 
birds, the blithe notes of throstle and mavis: 
from the sea, the chime of green wavelets 
running up foamy channels or leaping along 
among the shallows, and, beyond, that deep 
mysterious rhythm that contains the pulse of 
Time. Peace brooded upon sky, and sea, and 
land ; but, like a laugh from hell heard among 
the alleys of paradise, the screaming of the 
wounded gull turned the sweet savour of life 
into bitterness. 

452 



The Sister of Compassion 

It was at this moment I became aware of a 
rumour in the forest. From beech and chest- 
nut, from lime and tall elm, from sycamore 
and hazel, came a ripple of sweet notes, a rus- 
tle of wings. The beech-mast crackled with 
the scurrying of rabbits. Young foxes, 
wood-hares, squirrels, stirred through the 
bracken round the great-rooted oaks. Across 
the dry water-course the shrew-mice pattered. 

It was not consternation, for there were no 
startled cries, no reckless flight. The jay 
screamed no warning; the single snapping 
bark of the fox was unheard. 

Suddenly I stood as though entranced. I 
saw a woman, clothed in white, moving 
through the sun-splashed woodland. So ra- 
diant was the warm-white of her robe, that 
the leaf and branch-shadows, trailing on the 
golden light that overlay the moss, seemed 
pale blue. 

Through the branches over her head a 
myriad company of birds hovered, from the 
wandering cuckoo to the sky ringdove, from 
the missel-thrush to the wren. I saw the fal- 
con flying harmlessly among the chaffinches, 
and a wind-hover moving unheeded among 
the crowd of fluttering sparrows. 

Around, and behind her, were animals of 
all kinds. By her side, wild fawns, stretching 

453 



William Sharp 

their long necks towards her, blessed her with 
the unconscious benediction of their eyes. 
One small fawn was dappled red as with 
autumnal leaves, or as with blood. It 
moved by her right, and seemed to live only 
by the love and pity wherewith she sustained 
it, by healing hand or caressing touch. In 
her breast was a spot of dull red. I thought 
it was blood, but it was only a wounded robin 
which she had rescued from the snare of the 
bird-trapper. It slept against the warmth of 
her bosom: its tiny pulse of life lifting the 
small ruddy breast in rhythm with the larger 
rise and fall. 

The woman was young, in the beautiful 
youth of those who are not of this world. 
On her face, fair with charity, sweet with lov- 
ing kindness, there was the trouble of some- 
thing unfulfilled. Her eyes, which mirrored 
the passionate tenderness of her heart, were 
intent upon somewhat I could not see: some 
goal within the sunlit greenery, beyond the 
dim vistas of mysty light, of verdurous 
gloom ; or, perhaps, upon horizons I could not 
discern. 

I should have taken her for a vision, a 
spirit, but that I saw how womanly sweet she 
was. The white soul within her was known 
of every dumb or dwarfed soul among those 

454 



The Sister of Compassion 

glad bondagers of her spell, from the falcon 
to the timid rabbits which leaped before her 
v/ay like living surf. Moreover, she could 
see and hear what mortal eyes and ears could ; 
for suddenly she caught sight of the dying 
gull. Swift as a wave she was beside it. 
With deft hands she eased the broken wing: 
with gentle touch she stilled the fierce pulsa- 
tion. The bird looked upon her as he might 
have scanned a sunlit sea. A new light came 
into his eyes: a thrill shook his now elastic 
body; and though death darkened his life, 
the spirit which had animated him was set 
free, and was borne seaward by the wind. 

As she rose, for she had kneeled to lay the 
white body where the swift chemistry of air 
and light would work the wise corruption of 
the lifeless into new life, I recognised the 
face. 

She was one whom I had loved and hon- 
oured, whom I love and honour: a woman so 
wrought by the tragic pain of the weak and 
helpless, that, like one whom she followed 
blindly from afar, she daily laid down her 
life in order that she might be as balm here, 
and here might save, and at all times and in 
all places be a messenger of that tardy re- 
demption which man must make in spirit and 
deed for the incalculable wrong which he has 

455 



William Sharp 

done to that sacred thing he most values — 
Life. 

I know not now what that sea was, where 
that forest is. But I dream, O Sister of 
Compassion, what was the mysterious voice 
of the one whispered in your ears, what the 
confused murmur of the other echoed in 
your heart. 

I know not, but I dream; and I think the 
forest is that dark wood of human life, that 
silva oscura of living death or dying life 
which Dante saw with deep awe : and the sea, 
that ocean of mystery which involves us with 
a regenerating air, with a life that is not our 
own, with horizons of promise, and dim per- 
spectives of inalienable hope. 

And you, dear friend, are you one whom I 
and others have known and loved; or had I 
but a vision of the elect of the Following 
Love? Where is the goal you hungered for 
with those intent eyes, O Sister of Compas- 
sion: what the end, and whither the way? 



456 



The Merchant of Dreams 



THE MERCHANT OF DREAMS 
(A Fragment) 

There is a squalid little street, in the swarm- 
ing region of the Seven Dials, called World's 
End. I came upon it by mere hazard, one wet 
gloomy afternoon in midwinter, while on the 
quest of a friend, who, after many vicissi- 
tudes, had sunk in his last dissolute days to 
the position of a " super '' at Drury Lane 
Theatre. Traces of him were not wholly in- 
discoverable : a confused trail, lost among dis- 
reputable public-houses. It was at one of 
those, the Whistling Snipe, that a man, whose 
accent belied the evidence of his sordid ap- 
pearance, followed me to the door: and, for 
a small sum, volunteered to put me on the 
track of him whom I sought. 

At first I thought the bargain was a one- 
sided one; for, having pocketed the money, 
my would-be informant told me frankly that 
he could not be explicit. All he could do was 
to put me on the track, if any track were now 
discoverable at all. 

" No, sir," he reiterated, *' I don't myself 
know where he is. He may be dead, or dy- 

459 



William Sharp 

ing. He's not a ' super ' now. I haven't 
seen kim in the Lane for weeks. But if any 
one can help you, it will be old Father Am- 
brose." 

" Father Ambrose ? " I asked interroga- 
tively : *' is he a priest ? " 

" Oh, I forgot. Of course you don't know. 
That's what I'm here for just now. No, he's 
not a priest. No one knows anything about 
him: who he is, where he comes from, what 
he does. He must have a little o' the need- 
ful, for I've always heard his rooms are clean 
and well looked after: not that I know him 
or them, never having crossed the doorway o' 
the White Poppy." 

''The White Poppy?" 

" That's what old Ambrose, Father Am- 
brose, calls the little place he has: a bit of a 
bookshop, with clean windows, and no books 
behind 'em : got some inside. I know a man 
who knows him, and says the old philosopher 
(that's what they call him in the Lane) 
doesn't sell more than a book in a week, and, 
when he does, it's as often as not given right 
off just because asked for." 

"And will he know where James Linton 
is?" 

"Yes, if anybody does." 

"Why?" 

460 



The Merchant of Dreams 

*' Because Linton used to go there often, 
after he ' pulled up'." 

"Pulled up?" 

" After he threw over the drink. He'd 
got consumption, an' wanted to die decent." 

'* Well, show me the way," I added : and 
with that we passed into a maze of little 
squalid streets, lanes, and passages. 

It was in one of these that, in a few min- 
utes, I read the legend at the corner: World's 
End. Here my companion left me, with a 
parting injunction to pass a score of houses, 
till I came to one, set back somewhat on the 
right, distinguished by a board swinging from 
an old iron bracket. On the board would be 
visible the words The White Poppy. 

" You can't go wrong," he added : *' every 
one here knows the Sign of the White Poppy." 

It was with some curiosity that, a few min- 
utes later, I stood under the Sign of the 
White Poppy. The signboard swung in that 
dismal air, poignantly significant. What 
other, there, in that dread locality, could have 
had a more subtle allure. 

White Poppies! There was magic in the 
words. Forgetfulness, rest, quietude, obliv- 
ion, every sweet and longed-for nepenthe, lay 
hid therein : like the fragrance in an unfolded 
rose. 

461 



William Sharp 

The first thing that arrested my attention 
was the absence of books, or indeed of any 
saleable commodity, from the blank wooden 
space beyond the window. This was the 
more surprising, as the windows were clean 
and well-kept, as clean, at any rate, as was 
possible in that haunt of fog and squalor. 

Every here and there half sheets of note- 
paper were affixed to the window by red 
wafers. Advertisements^ I thought. Out of 
curiosity to know more of '^ Father Ambrose " 
and his avocations — for obviously his voca- 
tion as a bookseller was only nominal — I 
scrutinised these notices. 

It was to be an hour of surprises. Of the 
ten or twelve slips, not one was an advertise- 
ment or business notice of any kind. Each 
was some fair or noble thought: without pre- 
amble or appendical name or note: self-con- 
tained. All had quotation-marks: so, doubt- 
less, were excerpts from some book of col- 
lected sayings. This I surmised, as I glanced 
from one to the other. They were a strange 
mixture. Some were from ancient writers, 
some from modern: one or two from con- 
temporary poets. A few I failed to recog- 
nise. But I remember that the central one 
was that noble saying of Plato: ''Honour 
the Soul ; for according as a man's deeds are, 

462 



The Merchant of Dreams 

so will the nature of his soul change for bet- 
ter or for worse/' Below this were two, one 
of which I could not identify : " The Beauty 
of the World is the divine Veil between that 
morning-shadow, Humanity, and the Sun- 
rise of God." Its companion I knew as Ba- 
con's : ** The souls of the living are the 
Beauty of the World." Another, long fa- 
miliar, was from the Ajax of Euripides — 

**A11 human things 
A day lays low, a day lifts up again: 
But still the Gods love those of ordered soul." 

No lover of Amiel could fail to recognise 
a sentiment so characteristic of the author of 
the Journal Intime as " Like the rain of night, 
Reverie restores colour and force to thoughts 
which have been blanched and wearied by the 
heat of the day." 

Of the three or four unmistakably contem- 
porary excerpts, I identified two only: this 
from Matthew Arnold: — 

" But tasks in hours of insight wilFd 
Can be through hours of gloom fulfiird," — 

And this from a poet of singular distinc- 
tion, though unknown of the crowd who jostle 
each other at the base of Parnassus-Slope: — 

463 



William Sharp 

" Seclusion, quiet, silence, slumber, dreams : 
No murmur of a breath: 
The same still image in the same still dreams, 
Of Love caressing Death." 

What did it all mean, I wondered? Had 
" Father Ambrose " settled himself in Seven 
Dials for the purpose of cultivating among 
the inhabitants a love of literature? The 
idea was absurd : but, then, what could be his 
aim? 

Thereupon I did the wisest thing: I en- 
tered beneath the Sign of the White Poppy. 

A tall man, who would have appeared 
taller but for his stoop ; with long, thick, wavy- 
white hair; eyes of a dark blue, extraordi- 
narily vivid, giving to his whole physiognomy 
an aspect of youthful energy; and with thin 
white hands, long-fingered and delicate; ad- 
vanced from an inner room, the glazed door 
of which he closed behind him. 

" Are you . . . have you any books for 
sale, that I can look at ? '' I began awk- 
wardly. 

He smiled, and I admit that I was won 
straightway. 

" I have a few books. They are on these 
shelves here to your left. You will see they 
are of all kinds: but all, in some degree, books 
of dreamers." 

464 



The Merchant of Dreams 

'* Books of dreamers? " 

** Yes. A book, a history, a romance, an 
essay, a poem, is of value to me only when it 
creates an atmosphere of dream/' 

" You are, forgive me, a strange book- 
seller/' 

*' I am not a bookseller. I am a book-giver. 
Any one may come here who will. If a book 
be sought genuinely for its own sake, the 
seeker is welcome to it." 

*' Then those quotations you have affixed 
to your window are not meant to direct at- 
tention to the literary wares within ? " 

'' If so, I should surely take the trouble to 
mention the sources whence they come. 
These sentences that you have read are there 
for their own beauty and significance: and 
stand or fall by their inherent truth. Of 
what avail to the weary creatures who live in 
this neighbourhood the names of Plato and 
Euripides ? " 

'' Then the excerpts are meant for the 
passers-by of this region?'' 

" Yes : for the passers-by." 

"To what end?" 

" Every morning I change these beautiful 
and helpful sayings. Sometimes they are 
similar to those you have just scanned: some- 
times they are keen, vivid reminders of the 

46i; 



William Sharp 

beauty of earth and sky, of woodland or 
shore, of the mountains or the sea. 

"Again, and not infrequently, they are 
nothing but haunting rhythms: some lovely 
falling cadence, some exquisite strain. 

" On these occasions you would see nothing 
in my window but a single excerpt." 

" And they are read : they are noted : they 
are carried away in a few grateful mem- 
ories ? " 

" It is rare indeed they are not closely 
scanned by at least a score of persons in a 
day. Generally, this would be too moderate 
an estimate. I daresay fifty out of a hun- 
dred passers do not glance at them at all. 
Another twenty, will, after an amused, or 
contemptuous, or puzzled, or blankly incuri- 
ous scrutiny, resume their way, with or 
without mockery, with or without a second 
thought, with or without bewilderment, each 
in his own kind. Of the remaining tkirty or 
twenty, some will read over and over again: 
some will take one quotation, and with the 
avidity of starvation make it theirs, and pass 
on with a new light on their faces or a new 
depth of emotion in their weary eyes: a few 
will even return: now and again, a man or 
woman will enter, and speak with me." 



466 



The Merchant of Dreams 

" What I have said to you," resumed my 
new acquaintance, after a pause, " would be 
more exact in the past tense. For now, I am 
glad to be able to tell you, many poor souls 
whose hunger and thirst are not only the 
hunger and thirst of the body, come this way 
regularly. My window-lore has become to 
some as a well of pure-water, as the shadow 
of a green tree in a parched land, as, after 
long voyaging, the dear fragrance of inland 
odours blown seaward. Many now come to 
me for the only advice, the only help, it is in 
my power to give." 

Again there was a pause; but, as I did not 
speak, '' Father Ambrose " resumed. 

" Then, too, there are the few who come to 
me, as, perhaps, you have done: namely, to 
learn, if it may be, something of the secret 
of creating beautiful dreams, or, at least, to 
obtain from me a fair dream to leaven the 
pain, or drear commonplace, or tragic pathos 
of your day." 

I looked at the speaker in astonishment. 
There could be no question that he spoke in 
earnest. Was he mad, I wondered : or did he 
in truth mean what he said. If, perchance, 
he could accomplish what he hinted, then 
truly the chance which led me to him was a 
golden one. 

467 



William Sharp 

" I do not understand/' I remarked quietly : 
" Who and what are you ? " 

" My name is Gabriel Ambrose. Few, 
however, know this. Here I am generally 
known as ' Father Ambrose.' I think the 
designation has been given me partly because 
of my grey hairs and my solitude, or rather 
isolation, partly because I and my doings, or 
avoidance of ' doings,' make me mysterious in 
the eyes of my fellows. For the rest, I am 
known as * The Merchant of Dreams.' " 

" Do you mean that you actually sell 
dreams ? " 

" I barter dreams. Show me some fair 
thought, some fair aspiration, some fair hope, 
show me the yearning in your heart, the pain 
of your bruised spirit, and I will give you 
some lovely dream wherewith to make a 
music behind the passing hours and a glad 
rapture in the inmost courts of the spirit." 

"But how can you do this thing?" 

" Have you come to try ? " 

" No. But now, gladly, would I put you to 
the test." 

" Come in here, to my room." 

He opened the glass door, bowed courte- 
ously as I passed, and then followed in. I 
found myself in a small room, which afforded 
me a sense of surprise. It was not that there 

468 



The Merchant of Dreams 

was anything particularly rare or striking in 
its furnishing: for its contents were har- 
moniously but almost austerely simple. What 
delighted and refreshed the eyes was the radi- 
ance without artificial light which filled the 
room as with the breath of summer. There 
was no fire, though I saw that the wood and 
coal in the grate were ready to be lit. Out- 
side, the grimy day was already dark, and yet 
a soft light lingered, or appeared to me to 
linger, over the few book-shelves, over a 
quaint old spinet-shaped piano, and over a 
low dark oak-table whereon a vase of flowers 
stood. The only sign of luxury was in the 
flowers in this vase, and in others, smaller, on 
the book-shelves and by the dull ground-glass 
window at the end of the room. These were 
not only beautiful but rare: delicate orchids, 
late roses of an exquisite bloom and a yet 
more exquisite fragrance, sweet smelling 
autumnal violets. 

" You are not cold? No? The fire would 
have been lit : but I had to be out most of to- 
day, and had returned only a few minutes be- 
fore good fortune brought you here." 

'' If indeed you are a merchant of dreams 
the good fortune for me is something more 
than a mere happy chance." 

" I will tell you," he began simply : when, 

469 



William Sharp 

as he paused, I interrupted him to ask if he 
would inform me how it was his room was so 
full of a soft radiance, fugitive when stead- 
fastly regarded, but always resting with a 
lovely light somewhere. 

He smiled gravely, but did not answer at 
first. At last, pointing to the blooms, he 
asked if I did not think that flowers gave a 
lovely efifulgence. 

'* I have heard that nasturtiums give oflf a 
flashing light at times, but surely flowers do 
not ordinarily emit a radiance as some phos- 
phorescent fungi do?'' 

'' So most people would say, no doubt. 
But flowers do. Only, they need an atmos- 
phere. These pale roses you see in that bowl 
in the corner yonder: can you not see an ef- 
fulgence from them like a faint flame? It is 
gone, because your eyes have already ab- 
sorbed their just barely visible and, to our 
eyes, evanescent glow: but it is there all the 
same. If our eyes were trained to discern 
these subtle sidelights of nature we should 
know more both of the chemic and psychic 
influences in human life. For just as these 
frail and exquisite Clarimondes yonder will 
not grow in a clay soil, so they would swiftly 
fade in the still more fatal atmosphere cre- 
ated by the distempered body, the distempered 

470 



The Merchant of Dreams 

mind, the distempered souL Flowers are as 
susceptible to adverse human influences as a 
mirror is to the breath of confined vapours. 
Have you never noticed, for example, how 
some people can wear flowers for a whole 
day, even for two days or more, without the 
blooms losing their freshness and sweetness: 
while with others flowers of the same kind, 
however newly pluckt, will fade and die in a 
quarter of the time, even in an hour. It is 
possible, in this instance, that this may be due 
to the amount, or quality, of animal magnet- 
ism given oflf by the wearer. But otherwise 
there is something more than this. I do not 
hesitate to say that the atmosphere of a man's 
impure heart and body, perhaps I might even 
say a man's corrupt soul, will kill a flower as 
surely as any noxious gas could do. Let the 
life be clean, the inner life be fair with fair 
hopes and fair thoughts, the brain be haunted 
by lovely images, processions, dreams, rev- 
erieSj and nature becomes man's ally in a 
deeper sense than we imagine as possible. 
There are conspiracies to aid as well as to 
baffle us. A room may, at times, become as 
though filled with the loveliest subdued sun- 
glow, and yet be without illumination from 
any fire or lamp. I say * at times,' for it is 
not often, even with the happiest dreamers, 

471 



William Sharp 

that one can know that balanced serenity 
wherein the body and the mind and the soul 
are in perfect harmony/' 

'* Then you would place health before every- 
thing?" 

*' Yes : in the deep sense. Health is every- 
thing: just as those who talk for and 
against a rigorous ideal of Form in poetry 
are commonly oblivious of the fact that, in 
a deep sense, Poetry is Form. But the same 
mind has even more influence upon the indi- 
vidual life than the sane body has. Properly, 
one is the outgrowth of the other: but there 
is a serenity, a sanity, which can exist with a 
weak or frail body. The spirit is the domi- 
nant factor: not the stomach." 

" You say you are called ' The Merchant of 
Dreams.' How would you give me a dream? 
Let me be explicit. I am not an unhappy 
man, as the common weal goes : but I am not 
happy. Life for me moves in narrow cir- 
cumstances. I try to keep many avenues 
open: to have as wide and alluring perspec- 
tives as possible. But, for the most part, 
those * hours of insight ' are in sadly infre- 
quent proportion to the 'hours of gloom,' as 
Matthew Arnold says in those ever memorable 
lines of his which you have affixed to your 
window. To-day I left my lonely bachelor 

472 



The Merchant of Dreams 

lodging in deep depression, partly physical, 
partly mental. A northerner, and bred to the 
hills and the sea, my heart sickened for the 
loved places of my childhood and youth and 
best years. But stronger than this was my 
longing for some relief from the diurnal com- 
monplace of my life. Unable to work, I came 
to seek an old acquaintance, who, I fear, has 
sunk from depth to depth till submerged in 
the deep waters of degradation. It was in 
striving to find some trace of the present 
whereabouts of James Linton that I was di- 
rected to you. Now, if you can, tell me not 
only where Linton may be found: but give 
me, I pray of you, some dream that will ease 
my pain : that will irradiate what is left of this 
day, and will enable me to fall asleep fanned 
by the wings of some new joy, or peace, or 
hope." 

** James Linton is dead." 

"Dead!" 

" Yes. He died about a week ago. I knew 
him slightly. He had sunk deep in those 
waters you speak of. He was a brilliant and 
able youth when I knew him first, when he 
was in the Embassy at Constantinople. His 
step-brother, Lord Ravelston, was my most 
intimate friend: and when Ravelston was 
mortally wounded in a wretched duel, some 

473 



William Sharp 

twenty years ago now, he begged me, on his 
death-bed, to look after Linton/' 

For a moment I was puzzled. I knew the 
story of Lord Ravelston's tragic end, and of 
his strange wanderings throughout all civilised 
and uncivilised countries. His companion 
had been a man of even higher rank than his 
own: a man of European repute for his in- 
tellectual as well as for his social qualities: 
at one time a brilliant diplomatist: but who 
had suddenly disappeared from the ken of 
men while still in the prime of life, and was 
supposed either to have been murdered or to 
have followed the example of his younger 
brother (now a Cardinal) and entered a mon- 
astery in Rome. 

" You must be the Marquis of-^ ? '' I ex- 
claimed: an inconsiderate as well as a rude 
remark, escaped from me before I realised 
what I had said. 

'* My name is Gabriel Ambrose,'' replied my 
companion gravely. 

" I have no past that concerns you or any 
one. As for your friend, James Linton, of 
whom I had seen nothing for many years, the 
best thing that could happen to him happened. 
If you wish to know more about him I can 
give you the name and address of a dear friend 
of mine who attended him at the last: a de- 

474 



The Merchant of Dreams 

voted Anglican priest who has given his whole 
life to the unrewarded and apparently thank- 
less task of alleviating the human misery in 
this part of London. I call him ' the Forlorn 
Hope/ '' 

I thanked him, with assurances that I would 
take advantage of his suggestion. But^ I ad- 
mit, I was now more interested in what he had 
to tell me concerning dreams and dream life, 
than in my poor friend; who had already ex- 
perienced that last of human dreams, which is 
for ever dusked with the gloom of the grave. 

I feared I was intruding too much on his 
time: but he would not allow this. Frankly, 
I told him all I could about myself: my past, 
my present, my hopes, my more or less vague 
aspirations. In return, he told me somewhat 
concerning his method in the bestowal of 
dreams. Much I understood: much, again, 
was beyond my apprehension. But of one 
thing I came to feel sure : that, whatever the 
Merchant of Dreams himself thought, none 
could emulate him without being in some de- 
gree like him. Something of his welcome lore 
he could explain : but it was as though a healer 
of the sick were to expound some of the 
mysteries of his hypnotic powers, mysteries 
dependent, for their realisation, upon the in- 
nate, trained, and concentrated faculty which 

475 



William Sharp 

produced them. Such an one might explain 
to you or me how to cure many a bitter ill, 
how to heal many a wound of mind or soul 
or body: but, when we came to emulate his 
example, should we not find that our will was 
a feeble autocrat over circumstance, our in- 
sight inadequate, our cherished, imagined fac- 
ulty impotent to fulfil the empty authority of 
the will? 

"Elsewhere," said my companion, vaguely 
indicating a box of papers, on a shelf where 
many portfolios and manuscript cases lay, " I 
have said in detail what at present I explain 
somewhat cursorily. In due time, many, I 
hope, will not only be able to accomplish what 
I have the great hapipness of doing, but will 
have a wider scope, a far more profound in- 
fluence. You, my dear friend, will, I trust, 
live to see, in place of one old visionary, vol- 
untarily residing — and, I may truly say, hap- 
pily expiatively his misspent past — in this 
dreary district of a dreary region in one of 
the dreariest cities in the world: scores of 
men and women who, for rare qualities of 
mind and heart and out of deep knowledge 
of life and all the potentialities of good and 
evil, will be known among their fellows as, 
each in his own degree, a Merchant of 
Dreams.'* 

476 



The Merchant of Dreams 

Of what avail to repeat the mere extraneous 
mechanism wherewith my friend — for a dear 
and true friend he became from that day — 
conveyed to the mind of another the germ of 
some lovely vision of fair dream: a germ to 
expand and bloom forth either at once or 
speedily, and be as welcome as summer-rain 
in a time of drought, or the quietudes of wind- 
less sunshine after long days of storm and 
gloom. Rejoice! That was his magic word, 
his creed. Yet to none did he ever say quite 
the same things : for each he had a particular 
Sesame that none could apply but himself. 

I was about to rise, after that first memor- 
able visit, eager, yet reluctant to demand the 
favour I craved. But he saw, and anticipated 
my wish. 

" Look," he said, as a fugitive ray of light, 
I know not whence, stole through the room: 
^'Look, here is one of my messengers of joy." 

I looked and looked again. The golden ray 
had vanished: but my eyes rested against a 
bloom of light everywhere, and my heart was 
eased with a new, strange gladness. 

Out of that gladness, out of the vague 
trouble which followed, out of a sweet counsel 
given me, was born, a few hours later, this 
lyric. 



477 



William Sharp 

In the heart a bird of sunshine 
Singe th a sweet song: 

None can do it wrong 
Sweet breath of sunshine! 

What is this sunny bird 

With the rainbow-wings^ 

That singeth of secret things 
The heart only hath heard? 

I know not: but to 

The sun shines, and far 

In the blue sky a star 

Leapeth white as snow. 
And when the night-tides How 

And the stars glisten 

In the darkj I listen 
And the bird of moonshine 

Sings, where erst 

The sun-song burst 
From the bird of sunshine. 

It was a week later before I was able to re- 
visit the Merchant of Dreams. But in that 
week I learned secrets of a new life. The 
hours had all some rainbow-tint, seen if for a 
moment only, or as half convincingly as the 
levin-light when it lifts from cloud to cloud 
but does not penetrate the dense vapours. 

I would have been happy, but for a sick 
longing to be in my own land, beside the sea, 
the isles, the mountains, where as child and 
boy I had been so happy, and had so lately re- 

478 



The Merchant of Dreams 

visited, only to come back to London with a 
deeper, a more insatiate nostalgia. 

Something of this trouble I meant to ex- 
plain to my friend, but I found it easier simply 
to hand to him these few quatrains, written at 
one of the rare times when the mind had 
triumphed, and the longed-for had become real 
and near. 

I hear the murmur of rivers, 

I hear the ripple of streams: 
Sweet is the sound as the music 
Of dreams. 

I hear the wind in the pinewoods. 

The wind on valley and hill, 
Its voice in the upland heather 
Whistling shrill. 

I hear the green waves lapping 

Against the flute-voiced shore: 
Dear seas that lave the headlands 
Of Eilanmohr. 

These summoning voices call me 

Here in the dense-throng d street: 
And I feel the hill-wind round me. 
And the sea at my feet. 

These streets, these crowds, these houses — 

These fade in the murky day; 
But the wind and the waves and the sunlight 
Stay. 

479 



William Sharp 

He understood at once, all I had felt, all I 
would fain say. He smiled when I added that 
the worst sorrow was, that now, while the 
ache of longing was not dulled, all power of 
dream, of inward realisation, had gone. As 
for the relief of expression, that seemed an 
impossible thing. 

But he began to talk of other things: first 
about my doings and projects, then about the 
friend I had come to that neighbourhood to 
seek; and thereafter about yet another friend 
whom we had ascertained we knew in com- 
mon. This man, John Derwent by name, had 
renounced everything for the sake of a life of 
passionate devotion to the most poor and 
needy of a region that was not only poor and 
needy beyond common understanding, but was 
in a most literal sense feted with an atmos- 
phere of squalid misery, or sordid vice, of 
abiding horror. We called our heroic en- 
thusiast " The Forlorn Hope," though never 
to his face: for already he staggered under 
that bitter cross of martyrdom, knowledge of 
the fact that the battle, so long and strenu- 
ously fought, was, and had been from the first, 
and must needs be, a losing battle. 

Then he showed me the MSS. on which 
he worked intermittently. These contained, 
he told me, all his store of dreams, which he 

480 



The Merchant of Dreams 

hoped to bequeath as a heritage to innumer- 
able men and women. " My book is not only 
entitled ' The Art of Weaving and of Realis- 
ing Dreams/ but tells how, and when, and 
where, this golden secret of one may be made 
a common joy. For it is a true saying, * Life 
is a dream.' Calderon, as you know, wrote a 
play with that title, and the Japanese have a 
lyric drama so-called, and doubtless divers 
writers in divers lands have made a similar 
use of the phrase. But the truer reading 
should be : ' Life is a dream within a dream.' 
For happiness is only for the dreamer: 
though there be many dreamers, and many 
dreams, and many ways whereby dreams are 
entertained, or can be fashioned, or may be 
allured. You remember what I have before 
said to you? Let no awaking be without its 
rainbow-shimmer, let no sleep-faring be with- 
out its moonshine glamour. This, surely, we 
can all do: all who would have it so. But 
more than this is needful. The spaces of the 
noontide must be filled. The wide, featureless 
expanses in every diurnal span must be 
peopled, coloured, transformed. No hour 
should come, unattended by its dream, though 
that be fugitive as sum.mer-lightning, shadowy 
as a tall aspen in mist, intangible as the falling 
of the dew. For, truly, the dreamless hours 

481 



William Sharp 

are dead-sea-apples: surely, mayhap, but of 
dust and ashes within. Yet I would not have 
you, or any one, what is called 'a mere 
dreamer.' It is easy to make a fetish of a 
god, and in every worshipper the idolater is 
dormant. Dream while you act: act while you 
dream. What a little sentence in which to 
sum up all the long que^t, the long travail, the 
whole store of wisdom of three score years! " 

When I rose to say goodnight, the room was 
already charged with the fog, which had 
filtered through every possible crevice. Out- 
side, there was the sound of sodden rain. 
Dull cries fell against the permeable, dis- 
coloured walls of vapour. The dreary squalid 
street was half deserted, and was the silenter 
for the painful absence of the wind, not an 
eddy, not a breath of which penetrated that 
dismal region. 

But I left, radiant. A golden dream had 
been given to me by my friend: a dream to 
keep that night, and many days to follow, 
sweet and beautiful with a glad serenity. 



48a 



BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 

The volume of " Dramatic Interludes/' entitled 
Vistas, was originally published by Frank Murray in 
his Regent Series (The Moray Press, Derbyshire) 
in 1894. A few months later, the succeeding vol- 
ume in the series was Pharais: a Romance of the 
Isles, the first of the writings issued by William 
Sharp over the signature ** Fiona Macleod " ; and Vis- 
tas is considered by some of his readers to be a link 
between the two methods of his thought and work. 
In the dedicatory Foreword written for the Amer- 
ican edition (Stone & Kimball, Chicago, 1894) the 
author has explained his intention in these "dramatic 
interludes." Of the contents " The Black Madonna " 
appeared originally under the pseudonymn W. S. 
Fanshawe, in the one number of The Pagan Review 
(August, 1892) which was written entirely by Wil- 
liam Sharp, as editor and contributors; "The Birth 
of a Soul" was printed in The Chapbook (Chicago, 
Sept. 15, 1894) ; " The Whisperer '' appeared first in 
the American edition of Vistas, and was printed sep- 
arately in The Theosophical Review (London, Feb- 
ruary, 1908) and is now for the first time issued in 
book form in England. 

The three Tales in Part II were published in 1896 
by Messrs. A. Constable & Co., in a volume entitled 
" Madge o' the Pool,'* together with one other tale, 
"The Coward." The American edition, under the 
title of "The Gypsy Christ" (Stone & Kimball) was 
published a year earlier, and contained other three 
tales: "A Venetian Idyll," "The Graven Image," 

483 



William Sharp 

*'Fr6ken Bergliot." It is in accordance with the 
wishes of the author that these four tales are not 
included in the present volume. 

The " Prose Imaginings " in Part III, with the ex- 
ception of the fragment " The Merchant of Dreams/' 
formed the contents of the volume entitled Ecce 
Puella, published in 1896 (by Elkin Matthew) in 
which year also appeared The Washer of the Ford, 
Green Fire, and From the Hills of Dream, by " Fiona 
Macleod." In a note to Ecce Puella William Sharp 
explained that: 

** Ecce Puella " comprises all that the author cares 
to disengage from Fair Women in Painting and 
Poetry, an illustrated monograph which he under- 
took at the instance of the late P. G. Hamerton, 
for the Portfolio Series. It has, of course, been 
reworked into this, its essential form. "Love in a 
Mist" originally was published with illustrations in 
Good Words. "Fragments from the Lost Journals 
of Piero di Cosimo " appeared some years ago (1890) 
in two consecutive numbers of The Scottish Art 
Review. 



484 



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